From the archives: Hip Hop Hump Days #5: Dr Dre – The Chronic (1992)

Originally published on It Is Happening Again on June 4, 2014

Some of you may be too young to remember this but before he made garishly coloured headphones for imbeciles to wear on the bus, Dr Dre used to make music. And he was pretty damn good at it too.

Released at the tail end of 1992, long before he became hip hop’s first billionaire, ‘The Chronic’ still stands up today as his best work. Recorded at a time when he was embroiled in various financial and legal disputes (not to mention the obligatory ‘beefs’ with former NWA bandmates), this was the album that would reverse his fortunes in the most spectacular way.

While the lyrics are unmistakably ‘gangsta’ (I hate that term, but I’ve got nothing else), the music is something else entirely, taking the warm ‘G-funk’ sound pioneered by EPMD a few years earlier and shifting it up a gear. Musically, ‘The Chronic’ may have taken its inspiration from two decades earlier, but it still sounded way ahead of its time.

And that, to me, is what makes ‘The Chronic’ such an important album in the hip hop cannon. The Dre of today may feel like little more than a brand, but the Dre who made this album was taking a huge gamble on a career which could easily have gone the way of fellow NWA members DJ Yella and MC Ren (Google them – they do exist, I promise you).

This is the sound of someone with BIG aspirations; someone who understood the meaning of the term ‘next level’. Dre’s rapping can sometimes be a little perfunctory and his flow stilted, but ‘The Chronic’ is all about the BIG sound. A masterpiece? That goes without saying. A game-changer? Pay attention, damn it.

‘The Chronic’ is also significant for introducing the world to a then largely unknown Snoop (Doggy) Dogg. Okay, the first that many people in the UK had heard of Snoop was a year later when he was accused of murder (“Kick this evil bastard out!” screamed The Daily Star’s laughably hysterical front page at the time), but ‘The Chronic’ can take the credit for giving Mr Broadus his big break – the guy crops up on this album so frequently that it may as well have been marketed as a collection of duets. Snoop’s lyrical prowess leaves Dre’s in the shade, but then Dre’s real strengths have always been his production skills and business acumen – surrounding himself with promising young talent like Snoop was all part of the masterplan.

So, forget the headphones. This is 1992. They won’t exist for another 14 years. For now, the only beats by Dr Dre you need are right here.

From the archives: In the republic of mediocrity, genius is dangerous

Originally published on It Is Happening Again on January 14, 2014

If you’re at a loose end on 19^th February and you’re not busy sewing your eyelids shut or filling your ears with molten glue then you might find yourself basking in the festival of mediocrity that is the Brit Awards.

Music is one of Britain’s biggest exports, so the Brits must be a celebration of everything that’s truly great about British music, right? Oh, hell no.

In truth, the Brits have always trodden that fine line between terrible and appalling. Remember how Annie Lennox used to dominate the awards in the early 90s after releasing a solo album which sounded like the ramblings of someone who wanders through shopping precincts shouting at pigeons? How about the fact that glorified redcoat Robbie Williams holds the record for the most Brit awards (12, in case you wondered)? Coldplay? Yup. Mumford & Sons? You betcha. Cutting edge stuff, like I said.

So, it’s 2014 and things aren’t faring much better. Let’s look at some of the artists ‘leading’ the nominations, shall we?

Firstly, Bastille, nominated for four (four!) awards. BASTILLE. The name alone sounds like some overly pretentious ‘boutique’ bakery which sells tiny artisan loaves to hipsters. The reality is far, far worse. It’s hard to believe anyone would deliberately start a band which sounds so contrived, so unadventurous and yet that’s exactly what appears to have happened. It’s like they were put together with the sole purpose of fronting an advert for Topshop. They probably know people with names like Hugo. The music itself sounds like The Hoosiers, Scouting For Girls and that twat who sang ‘JCB Song’ have got together for a jam at their local Costa Coffee open mic night. The singer (I can’t even conjure up the will to look up his name) pronounces things in the most horrible, affected way – “if you clewse your eyes” and “rhythm is a darncer” (hell, even people who say ‘darncer’ in everyday speech still sing it as ‘dancer’) – that makes you want to hunt him down and see to it that he never sings again. That literally tens of thousands of ‘consumers’ are lapping up this drivel by the bucketload is a sad indictment on society and a shame we will have to bear for generations to come.

Next up: Tom Odell. Yeah, because that’s what the world needs right now, isn’t it? A frickin’ Starsailor revival. And worst of all, you’re ensuring that he gets to make a living out of peddling his painfully bland output by buying into this bullshit. This means he’ll probably make a second album. Just think about that for a moment.

Then there’s Katy Perry. I imagine she likes to see herself as a cross between Betty Page and Dita Von Teese in terms of image, but in reality comes across more like forgotten 90s pop ‘star’ Lolly. The fact she’s effectively just re-releasing the same song each time doesn’t really help, either. As with Lady Gaga, everything just feels so forced, so false. All style, no substance.

Jessie J, then. I caught a few minutes of her set at Glastonbury in 2011. The most interesting thing about it was the fact she had to sit down to sing due to a broken leg. Her vocals were dreadful, her songs lacked variety and the whole experience felt like watching your mum trying to be ‘street’. I was embarrassed for us both. It saddens me that she’s been nominated for British Female Solo Artist.

This pitiful line-up is symptomatic of what’s really wrong with the Brits. While the whole thing has always been so ridiculously corporate and the results so tediously predictable (with the possible exception of the time Belle & Sebastian pipped Steps to the post for Best British Newcomer in 1999), there always used to be a sense of danger. Whether it was Jarvis Cocker pretending to waft a fart at Michael Jackson (I still firmly believe he’s owed a knighthood), The KLF firing blanks from a machine gun at a bewildered audience after performing a death metal version of ‘3am Eternal’ with grindcore metal band Extreme Noise Terror, the endless squabbles between Oasis and everything else in existence, or, erm, Danbert Nobacon (stay with me here) from Chumbawamba tipping a bucket of ice water over John Prescott, you could pretty much guarantee that something was going to happen that wasn’t in the script. Something to ruffle the suits and give ITV bosses a collective coronary.

Okay, there was that time when Adele flipped the bird at no one in particular when her 39^th acceptance speech of the night was cut short in 2012, but when you consider that this was to make way for Blur then you can only conclude that she fully deserved to be denied the right to inflict her foghorn voice on everyone for another second. But other than that, the most controversial incident these days is more likely to involve someone dropping a microphone or suffering an autocue malfunction. Rock and, indeed, roll.

Worse still, James Corden, who appears to be allergic to turning down work, is presenting the awards for the THIRD CONSECUTIVE YEAR. I’ve yet to meet anyone who can fully explain his appeal. He is neither funny nor entertaining and always looks a little too pleased with himself. I don’t know who’s responsible for this bewildering decision, but they deserve to be hurt. Badly.

Sure, there are a few redeeming features. The supremely talented John Grant is nominated for Best International Male, for example, but you and I both know he’s not going to win and, anyway, it’s too little, too late.

You go ahead and watch if you like. I’ll be in the kitchen, licking a cheese-grater.