Every year there's at least one: a new band or artist employing a slacker-style penchant for stream-of-conscious lyrics and kitchen-sink production aesthetics who the press hastily and irresponsibly christens "The New Beck." From Self to Forest for the Trees to Primitive Radio Gods, these artists rarely succeed on their own merits, patently distilling Beck's multifaceted styles into a calculated formula or half-bred hodgepodge pastiche. Still, they come a dime-a-dozen, parading through rock's history books as footnotes at best on the strength of one radio-friendly sing-along (or less). All of which is fittingly ironic for a man who himself is often referred to as "The New Dylan."
Oh, it's not all Mr. Hansen's fault, of course. Cheap digital gear and bootleg copies of Garage Band shoulder part of the blame. But corner that pesky Scientologist in an airport and he'll tell you straight out: It's a bitch keeping up with the kids, man, the muthafuckin' kids. And that's where outfits like Boomkat, Samantha Ronson, and Bumblebeez 81 come in. The first was a weirdly addictive combo that tried on tired trip-hop, teen-pop, and energetic yammering; the second will be Rocafella's summer '04 entry into faux-rock hipsterism (Miss Sam's first single sounds like Natalie Imbruglia covering stuff from Pink's M!ssundaztood); and the third is the Australia-via-NYC snip-pop project of one Chris Colonna and his merry coed crew. Their debut, The Printz, compiles pieces of two earlier EPs for a record that's going to make poor Beck puke.
It's not like Colonna, his sister Vila, and their assorted collaborators (both human and machine) are better than Beck, or The Neptunes, or The Avalanches, or any other artist their record attempts to replicate; their trash/fash rehash resonates more than The Moldy Peaches' in-jokes only because The Printz is consistently hooky. But as MTV2's Subterranean knows, it's the aesthetic that matters, and to that end, Bumblebeez 81 are where it's at for at least the next few minutes.
Frankly, it could be much worse. Vila takes the mic for "Microphone Diseases": "I flow like water in a stream/ I got the mad fuckin' scheme/ All up in my regime." Okay, it's not exactly Def Poetry Jam, but when she starts blabbering about putting placentas in blenders over a sample of a tennis volley, smart brains start thinking "guilty pleasure." And the ESG update on the back end ain't bad, either.
Vila offers a much stronger mic presence than her brother, who tends toward mumbling as an affectation, and she wisely returns for "Pink Fairy Floss". The song sounds more like Cibo Matto than anything; its hard squelch riff, Latin percussion loop, and elephant and Tone-Loc drop-ins are the stuff memorable make-out parties are made of. She's at her best on the appropriately named "Vila Attack". Bragging about her stale rhyming skills is both bold and daring, but the track's overdriven background layers harken wildly to those early 90s days when Mellow Gold was still fresh and Timmy Taylor hadn't yet been struck down in his prime.
So, contrary to what most press has already said, The Printz isn't hip-hop, nor does it have anything in common with the wiry post-punk it references on "Step Back" and "Pony Ride". Still, Colonna's sneer is appropriate, and the nearly tuneless guitar throughout is sort of charming. The album doesn't posit Bumblebeez 81 anywhere near staying-power square, though, because ultimately it's too reliant on recombination. Beck might stay on top because he looks dope in Prada, but he's also intent on building a cohesive product from his myriad mental fragments. The Printz is more of a pose. It has its share of memorable moments, but they'll undoubtedly sound better if you're a) the coolest kid in your high school, or b) Milla Jovovich. The record will also work wonders for Bumblebeez 81 and their burgeoning rep, but they gotta understand-- real recombinant music helps the heartland get some, too.
