Not to disappoint the readership, but this review won't feature any tales of my exploits with the ladies. Word from on high has it that the Big Man discourages lusty anecdotes suffused with bodily functions these days. But Pitchfork old-schooler James P. Wisdom may have nailed the atmosphere just right when rating Morcheeba's first album, Who Can You Trust?. It's hard to have sympathy for a second-gen trip-hop band whose name is a not-so-thinly veiled pot reference, not to mention song titles like "Trigger Hippie". Still, Skye Edwards' voice cooed so smoothly that it felt more like soul than angst, and the simple arrangements and subtle detail chilled many heads.
Of course, the London trio soon caught the whiff of cashflow and shifted rapidly from lounge chic to generic, radio-friendly pop in a downward spiral shared by most of their contemporaries (Hooverphonic, anyone?). The Sire execs saw to it that all elements of darkness, ethereality and-- gasp in shock here-- black soul were quickly and efficiently excised from the mix, to be replaced by the most predictable, glossy surface settings this side of IKEA. Now whitewashed, Edwards and brothers Paul and Russ Godfrey have dropped their fourth and most atrocious album yet, Charango. The name comes from a South American lute usually made from the shell of an armadillo. A fitting title for dead meat.
Charango begins with a hint of the band's former sensuality on "Slowdown", which features reverbed guitar and Edwards' breathy voice begging you to "slow down" after a long day. Unfortunately, her lyrical banality has progressed far beyond excruciating rhymes, to the point where every chorus reads like a self-help manual. "Otherwise" features canned string frills that accompany Edwards' advice: "It ain't gonna hurt now, if you open up your eyes/ You're making it worse now, every time you criticize." Next up is "Aqualung", which, unfortunately, is not a cover of the Jethro Tull song-- the spectacle of Skye eyeing little girls with bad intent might have added some punch to the cod-Western riffs copped from earlier albums. You may get a kick from the lyrics, though: "Square up to fight, like dynamite!" Somewhere, Bis beam with pride.
The guest stars aren't lacking in commandments, either. On the title track, Outsidaz rapper Pacewon finally makes the pun in the band's name overt for the chronically sheltered: "Y'all need to roll your blunts with Morcheeba!" Another guest spot features Lambchop's Kurt Wagner doing his best Mark Eitzel impression. But the abominable low comes with "Women Lose Weight", which features the venerable Slick Rick. Yes, the man who brought you the classic "La Di Da Di" returns for a sketch in which he decides he's got to kill his wife as a result of her putting on weight over the years. In the cheery chorus he sneers, "Send that ass right to the morgue." It might be amusing to the socially callous if the entire affair wasn't so irredeemably wack that even a white guy like me just shakes his head in embarrassment. It doesn't help that Rick's flow and the rhythm parody the Gorillaz's "Clint Eastwood"; ripping off Del isn't the way to bring this bilge back to earth.
Morcheeba don't need outsiders to sound contrived, though, evidenced in the pseudo-Tropicalia of "Sao Paulo". Tame percussion and turntable scratches paint the perfect picture of a self-absorbed traveler boozing it up in the exotic South, and Skye signs it with the line, "My life is just one big cliché." Yes, imitative fallacies usually suck, and no, Latin Americans don't need any more cheap caricatures; they're sick enough that "passionate" and "fiery" seem to be the only adjectives ever applied to them. On Morcheeba's website, the band talks about their interest in Brazilian Tropicalia's cannibalistic tendencies, the urge to consume different musical styles and synthesize them all. Likewise, Charango reeks of Warner Brothers' attempt to find a viable audience for this waning band, and the seemingly anti-consumerist "Way Beyond" rings hollow next to the rest of these marketing imperatives masquerading as songs. If only it were somehow more enjoyable to watch it all devour itself...
