For bet­ter or worse, ‘Shut Up, Dude’ is a new hip-hop, at ease with race, gen­der, hu­mor, and self-dep­re­ca­tion.

Pasatiempo - - Pasa Tempos -

THE STREETS ON FIRE This Is Fancy (The Cur­rency Ex­change)

Call it scuzz rock, call it garage noise, call it face-drunk post­punk, call it what­ever the hell you want, but play this al­bum loud enough to ran­kle your neigh­bors and scare your cat into the closet. (Bet­ter yet, use head­phones in­doors and spare your kitty a trip to the pet shrink. But to hell with your neigh­bors. Put the speak­ers out­side.) Deaf­en­ing rock bed­lam reigns supreme on this 11-track tool­shed of snarling gui­tars drenched in re­verb, dis­tor­tion, and feed­back; stac­cato per­cus­sion; throb­bing Joy Di­vi­sion bass lines; and in­co­her­ent scream­ing vo­cals. The whole she­bang sweats buck­ets of retro-ana­log fancy. Chicago band The Streets on Fire dips its toes into ev­ery­thing from psychedel­ica to goth and avant-rock on this de­but full-length, and it also man­ages to pull a few mod­ern-pop rab­bits out of its ex­pan­sive stylis­tic top hat. “Hello, From East­ern Europe” is a song The Cure’s Robert Smith for­got to write while record­ing Dis­in­te­gra­tion, and “That’s Hard to Find” will have you search­ing for your copy of The Clash’s “London Call­ing” sin­gle in no time. Lead-off track “No One’s @&%*ing to the Ra­dio,” a sin­gle that should be heard on the ra­dio but never will, sets the stage for 33.5 min­utes of dance­able — if a bit self-in­dul­gent — anger-man­age­ment ther­apy. While lis­ten­ing, please ask per­mis­sion be­fore punch­ing holes in walls that don’t be­long to you. — Rob DeWalt

DISkJOkkE En Fin Tid (Small­town Su­per­sound)

Joachim Dyr­dahl (aka diskJokke) makes elec­tronic mu­sic for peo­ple who don’t of­ten lis­ten to elec­tronic mu­sic. That is to say, he takes el­e­ments that lay­men closely as­so­ci­ate with dance mu­sic (the disco-house beats and the crescen­dos and re­leases) and uses these tools to paint an ever-evolv­ing, highly ac­ces­si­ble mu­ral. The open­ing track, “Re­set and Be­gin,” eases lis­ten­ers’ toes into the wa­ter with some Van­ge­lis-es­que sci-fi and a bass throb. He tosses per­cus­sion — com­put­er­ized shak­ers, real-life con­gas, hi-hats, what sounds like liq­uid cas­tanets — into the mix, al­most as a gar­nish. It isn’t un­til track two, “En Fin Tid,” that he breaks out the Gior­gio Moroder in­flu­ence, turns off the “no danc­ing” light, and takes flight. For the next 50-some min­utes, hardly 10 sec­onds pass with­out an invit­ing bass line or lively rhythm. Dyr­dahl is an ex­pert at re­mov­ing el­e­ments from a dense com­po­si­tion and ren­der­ing it briefly min­i­mal­ist be­fore build­ing it back up to a glo­ri­ous cli­max. The Nor­we­gian pro­ducer’s aca­demic back­ground in­cludes math­e­mat­ics and clas­si­cal vi­o­lin, and he has de­vel­oped a me­chan­i­cal ap­proach and melodic style that seem­ingly draws from both of these course stud­ies. Nowhere is this more ev­i­dent than on “Rosen­rød,” eight min­utes of funk that coyly tease as much pure joy as pos­si­ble from a hand­ful of retro-synth notes. In 1980, this is what we thought the fu­ture might sound like. Ap­par­ently, the fu­ture is here.

— Robert B. Ker

Ja­SON MO­RaN

Ten (Blue Note)

When I saw Jenny Schein­man’s quar­tet at the Vil­lage Van­guard in the fall of 2008, the vi­o­lin­ist was some­thing to wit­ness, but her pi­anist, Ja­son Mo­ran, was equally com­pelling. You can hear him on Schein­man’s Cross­ing the Field and on re­cent al­bums by Cassandra Wil­son, Charles Lloyd, and Paul Mo­tian, but Ten is the pi­anist’s first CD as a leader in nearly four years. The record­ing marks the 10th an­niver­sary of his Band­wagon trio, with Tarus Ma­teen on bass and Nasheet Waits on drums. First up is “Blue Blocks,” one of seven Mo­ran com­po­si­tions on the disc. It pos­sesses some­what of an old-fash­ioned, cel­e­bra­tory char­ac­ter, with some tremen­dously en­thu­si­as­tic pi­ano play­ing and lots of brashy cym­bals in the mid­dle part. “RFK in the Land of Apartheid” has a jazzy, march­ing cadence, which Ma­teen sets up with an an­gu­lar, 11-note re­peat­ing fig­ure. Th­elo­nious Monk’s “Cre­pus­cule With Nel­lie” is a very cool trio piece with an even quirkier rhythm than Monk ex­hib­ited on his 1963 Criss-Cross al­bum. Here’s a zinger: “Study No. 6” by the late player-pi­ano com­poser Conlon Nan­car­row. Waits and Ma­teen cre­ate a dense jun­gle sound screen for some beau­ti­fully dis­so­nant, wild play­ing by Mo­ran. The re­main­ing seven songs are some­times staid but more of­ten lively, com­plex, and thun­der­ous. Over­all, this is fairly mar­velous mod­ern mu­sic. — Paul Wei­de­man

DaS RaCIST Shut Up, Dude

(Greed­head/Mishka) The very name of rap duo/nov­elty act Das Racist is a tongue-in-cheek homage to the mul­tira­cial up­bring­ings of hip-hop dadaists and pro­found satirists Hi­man­shu Suri and Vic­tor Vazquez. Most know them as the pair be­hind “Com­bi­na­tion Pizza Hut and Taco Bell,” a ridicu­lous, in­fec­tious ’ 80s rap homage to the chain restau­rants that haunt our low-cost food land­scape. The lyrics of that tune con­sist en­tirely of “I’m at the Pizza Hut / I’m at the Taco Bell / I’m at the com­bi­na­tion Pizza Hut and Taco Bell.” Yet on their first al­bum, re­leased as a free down­load, they prove them­selves to be far more than fast-food skit rap­pers. Son­i­cally, the record rev­els in the crude and de­light­ful blips, squeaks, and breaks of early elec­tro-rap. Lyri­cally, the band both skew­ers and cel­e­brates ur­ban rap cul­ture. “Fake Pa­tois” is a gritty dance-hall track that pokes funs at ev­ery singer who dared to adopt a fake Ja­maican ac­cent, from KRS-One to Jay-Z. The comic high­light here is “Shorty Said,” a dance track that jug­gles ur­ban eth­nic­ity and the time­worn prac­tice of flirt­ing through celebrity com­par­isons, with lines like “Shorty said I look like a chubby Jake Gyl­len­haal/I said this is

Broke­back, and I’m a broke mack/I’m so hard, I’m typ­ing on a broke Mac.” For bet­ter or worse, this is a new hip-hop, at ease with race, gen­der, hu­mor, and self-dep­re­ca­tion. — Casey Sanchez

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