On The Rocks, London
10th December 1998
What does a New York Jewish MC from East Berlin sound like in soundclash mode with his East End muckers? Especially when set off by their apearance on a stage in a Shoreditch nightclub seemingly more frequented by stag and hen parties – complete with spangly paint and mirrors on the walls, and what looked a lot like a pole for strippers to mould their bodies to before a little lapdancing…
I can’t help admiring acts of musical sabotage – even if I wouldn’t necessarily choose to listen to them at home. The night had potential to be an evening of mediocre House that didn’t quite have the nerve to become out and out Speed Garage, followed by some unlistenable Jungle. That was thoroughly wrecked. Instead, this loosely-formed sprawl of HipHop emanated on the stage. It didn’t have any noticable beginnings, or endings. It just was. Its hard to even pin it down to a category. Well, it was HipHop, it was funk … but that either doesn’t do it justice, or it does it far to much justice. This was funk that had just been run over.
Chilly Gonzales randomly hit his electric piano, swung his enormously hyperreal gold chain. The Musical Truth – who wore a mask reminiscent of a medieval executioner – attacked bass guitars, drums, drum machines. They swapped over. Every so often there was the faintest suggestion that they were actually rather good musicians. However tonight was their night off, tonight they were doing what ever the fuck they wanted – with no concessions to the audience, or good taste for that matter. Generally the sound was like the stuff you and your mates might record in your living room. Their mates turned up, a horde of people with mircophones ran riot on the stage. If you wanted to get up there and pound a snare drum, that appeared to be fine with Chilly G and Mr. Truth. This went on until the regular DJ and MC got pissed off enough to oust them and tried to set the evening back on its course of unremarkable dance music.
The case of the fine line between genius and madness has been well and truly over-stated. This event was more the fine line between inspired and crap. Whether I’d listen to it on record or not, I do like a nice night of Dadaesque lunatics ruining the bland clubby ambiance.
-A Kentish Reviewer from East London-
