DJ Shadow
The Private Press
[MCA; 2002]
Rating: 7.0
Chances are, the first time you heard DJ Shadow's Endtroducing,
it sounded damned unique. No, the fat beats and the goofy samples
and the wickedy-wicky weren't anything new, even back in those halcyon
days of '96, but the idea of fat beats and goofy samples and
wickedy-wicky on an album bereft of some sucka MC's verbal gymnastics--
that, friends, was gold. Instrumental hip-hop, of course, was no more
radical an idea back then than it is now; but for many of us young
wannabes and poseurs, Endtroducing was the first time we'd ever
heard anything quite like it.
And even if the concept wasn't just out of the box, the freaky melange
of John Carpenter soundtracks and visceral, pounding punk beats in a
hip-hop environment most certainly was. So, DJ Shadow may not have
invented instrumental hip-hop, but he did sound a revolution with it.
And now, six years, two mix records with Cut Chemist and a handful of
UNKLE remixes later, here we all sit at our little terminals wondering
if Mr. Josh Davis is capable of doing it all over again.
But The Private Press is being dropped into a market vastly
different than the one that gave birth to its predecessor. Ninja Tune,
Mo'Wax and other like-minded labels have spent the last half-decade
slowly and laboriously digging a grave in which to bury the
beats-and-samples formula. Which might explain why-- despite its
fair share of fat beats, goofy samples and wickedy-wicky-- The
Private Press will not go down in history as the record that
brought electronic music out of its state of imminent peril.
After an irritating introductory segment in which some woman who's
probably dead now recites a written letter to a friend (the record
is littered with these skit-like clips, and though some are mildly
entertaining, they tend to detract from the real deal), the album
opens up for real with "Fixed Income," a fine-enough instrumental
hip-hop retread that leaves little impression after it's clicked
over to "Walkie Talkie," where things lighten up a bit. Built from
a harsh drumbeat and a few alternating samples-- a man bellowing
"I'm a bad muthafuckin' DJ," a woman proclaiming, "This is why I
walk and talk this way," and the now-ubiquitous cry of "SUCKA!"--
the groove on "Walkie Talkie" is seriously tight (even 'dope,' if
you so dare), despite its too-quirky, scratched-upon boasting.
Up until now, The Private Press has resided in the comfortable
niche chiseled out by Endtroducing, albeit with a less darkly
atmospheric bent. But the record's also got its fair share of tracks
that sound nothing like Shadow's previous endeavors; alongside the
familiar sounding cuts, new directions abound: on "Six Days," a soulful
R&B; crooner tears off close to a week's worth of page-a-days, lamenting
with each that, "Tommorow never comes until it's too late." This
007-esque sentiment is set to hand drums and organ washes that wouldn't
sound out of place on a pitched-down Can record. "Right Thing/GDMFSOB"
infuses the standard Shadow routine with a hint of electro, replacing
some of the trademark live-sounding drumming with cheesy machines, and
looping a nicely staggered vocal to fit the beat.
"Monosylabik" heads a bit further down this path, matching a vocal
sample and drenched-in-delay drums with buzzing synths and bumping
bass. "Mashin' on the Motorway" is a short but sweet tip of the hat to
road rage, "Grand Theft Auto III," and those reckless driving songs
rebelliously churned out in the 1950s. Angry drivers serenade Lateef
the Truth Speaker (of the Quannum Projects duo Latyrx) with horn honks
and swears as he ponders the slow-moving fiends surrounding him
("I tell 'em move over/ This road ain't big enough for ya/ I'm flying
like Knight Rider/ They tryin' to keep up with they Grandma beside em'/
'Sides, maybe his steel-belted radials are expired/ Maybe they tired/
Maybe their odometer needs to be rewired"), the whole thing escalating
until it crashes and detonates like a hundred-car pile-up.
Next up is "Blood on the Motorway," a comparatively slow, meditative
reaction. Spoken word ruminations about death fall over simple piano
chords, chimes and bad 80s synths, the relative corniness of which
I could tolerate were it not for the hair-metal balladeering that
comes with it. At one point, the vocalist repeats the phrase "let
the laughter..." three times before he manages to get to what he
wants us to allow the laughter to do. Personally, the melodramatic
delivery of such underwhelming lines as, "Your eyes will not close/
Your tongue barely speaks/ But I can still feel you," over an
electro-synth arpeggio isn't exactly my cup of tea. Still, I
appreciate Shadow's attempt to take a different approach, even if
I don't care for the execution. Besides, the song does eventually
resolve itself with a hot instrumental charge headed by a
tight-as-can-be breakbeat, so I suppose nothing's lost... er, except
any unhealthily harbored expectations of perfection.
Shadow closes the album with a song called "You Can't Go Home Again."
The title fits: though he makes a point of referencing styles and
techniques from his breakthrough debut, he's clearly most interested
in forward-thinking sounds. Like watching live improvisation, the
results aren't always perfect, but you feel part of the process; the
relative success of the whole takes a back seat to the art of trying.
It's better this way, anyhow. It would, after all, be a sad thing if
Shadow took a sad shot at Xeroxing his debut. But what would be sadder
is if people dismissed this album just because it doesn't live up to the
strength of its groundshattering predecessor. The Private Press
is more solid an album than anyone dared expect from an older, wiser
DJ Shadow, and though it won't be televising another revolution, I'd
be lying if I said its celebratory pleasure centers didn't communicate
directly with my own.
-David M. Pecoraro, June 6th, 2002