Red Hot Chili Peppers
Californication
[Warner Bros.]
Rating: 6.8
I actually frightened friends of mine when I declared that I was looking
forward to the new Red Hot Chili Peppers record. Dan simply replied
sardonically, "Dooooode." BloodSugarSexMagik was the first CD I ever
purchased. Listening to a CD on headphones after a decade of cassettes was
revelatory. Faint, echoing harmonies, popping bass, and crisp, finger-
lickin' guitar swirled in my ears. (In retrospect, I guess technology had a
lot to do with my infatuation with the album.) Now, Californication
sees the same players (John Frusciante and Rick Rubin included) from the
that album return. As expected, it's considerably better than the bone-
stupid One Hot Minute, but not quite as funky- assed as their
acclaimed 1991 effort.
But wait. Before we go any further, let's talk about Dave Navarro. Dave
Navarro was a horrible fit for the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Thankfully, he's
off in some private velvet- paneled studio pouring hot wax on his nipples
and applying mascara. Look up "wannabe rockstar" in the dictionary and
you'll find a picture of Dave Navarro's pierced nipples and school- of-
Depeche Mode black nail polish. So, weighing in at a stunning 85 pounds,
the band's former guitarist John Frusciante and his quavering, pasty,
skeletal body rejoined for the Californication sessions.
In his off time from the Chili Peppers, John Frusciante recorded a couple
of drug- induced solo mishaps and had a best- selling Italian novel named
after him. The man brings a rucksack of real emotions with his guitar.
I'll also wager my credibility that he's the best big- time American rock
guitarist going right now. His fingers can effortlessly switch from the
pickin' funk of "I Like Dirt" to the sculpted feedback of "Emit Remmus" to
the tender, lovely (yes, really, a tender, lovely Chili Peppers track)
"Porcelain" to the clever, stadium- sized solos throughout. But best of
all, he makes you forget about that crazy monkey on bass.
Eh, but let's face it, the biggest obstacle in your enjoyment of a Red Hot
Chili Peppers album is horny crooner, Anthony Kiedis. If you can stomach
lines like "Go-rilla cunt-illa/ Sammy D and Salmonella," "Up to my ass in
alligators/ Let's get it on with the alligator haters," and "To fingerpaint
is not a sin/ I put my middle finger in," you're good to go. If those
lines make you wince like Pitchfork Editor Ryan Schreiber, keep in mind
that I pulled those from only two of fifteen songs.
In a way, you have to be familiar with California to appreciate Kiedis'
lyrics. I mean, Los Angeles is shallow, sunny, fun, and tragic. So, in
this age of unfathomably horrible choruses like, "I did it all for the
nookie/ The nookie/ So you can take your cookie...," "Because you did my
homies," and "Bawitdaba" (a five- spot to anyone who can explain that one),
we can cut the Chili Peppers some slack. Plus, the sincere, hook- laden,
mellow jams of "Scar Tissue," "Otherside," and "Road Trippin'" more than
make up for whatever knuckle- dragging Kiedis executes. That the Chili
Peppers even gave us a single you can actually tolerate on the radio should
be heralded.
Longevity in rock music is about as rare as hip-hop spellcheckers these
days. The idea of albums has given way to the force- feeding of singles.
Teens reposter their walls with the face- of- the- moment more frequently
than undercover advertisers placard boarded- up fences and buildings in New
York. Basicially, the Chili Peppers are the closest thing we have to a Led
Zepplin today. If you want quality, commercial, Jeep- stereo, headphone,
stadium- filling, champion Rock that you can get behind, where else are you
going to turn? Not to Eminem, you ain't.
-Brent DiCrescenzo