The Roots are, among other things, exhibit A when earnest white National Public Radio members try to argue that not all contemporary rap is crass consumerist crap: “They rail against the system! They make with the uplifting messages! They’ve got a real live drummer and everything!” But, unfortunately for the Roots — six records in and nary a single lousy platinum — it’s the crass consumerist crap that the kids want to crank in their hoopties.
Let’s be honest: If you want to twurk all your troubles away and distract yourself from the great national nightmare, with its immoral war and its sucky economy and its evangelical nutjobs and its free-speech zones, what do you want for your soundtrack? Missy Elliott’s subliterate, irresistible gutter crunk or KRS-One’s self-righteous hectoring? There’s a reason so many Depression-era movies were spectacular orgies of opulence, and there’s a reason so many of today’s poor black kids want to listen to songs about Gucci and Cristal. The Marxists call it false consciousness, but they might as well call it Clear Channel.
Borrowed from Malcolm Gladwell, the title of the Roots’ latest CD suggests an ambition that’s either disturbingly grandiose or willfully naïve. The tipping point is that moment when seemingly insignificant events ripple outward, effecting real cultural change. By tipping ever so slightly to the center, the Roots mean to subvert the industry from within. With The Tipping Point as their Trojan horse, they make a blatant grab for a Grammy, and who can blame them? It hardly seems fair that their inferiors (are you listening, Black Eyed Peas?) rule the charts while the Roots rule the critics’ polls, barely eking out the occasional gold record. Being the Roots, they can’t sell out, exactly, because they’ve got too much taste and talent; unfortunately, they haven’t quite figured out a way to bring their freaky brilliance to the masses without compromising it. A noble experiment, sure, but the result is a disappointingly uneven record, neither fish nor fowl.
And yet it’s the Roots. Two years ago, they dropped Phrenology, an astonishing amalgam of experimental hip-hop, sweet Stonesy roots-rock, speed-metal thrash, and astringent skronk. If they suddenly started sucking — and they haven’t yet — they’d still be the band that gave us one masterpiece and four lesser-but-still-excellent albums.
Besides, even though Tipping is weak by Phrenology standards, it still smacks the pants off most commercial-rap-radio fare. “Star/Pointro” is all joyous hiss and thump, slipping rhymes about Columbine and dollar signs between Sly and the Family Stone samples. The first single, “Don’t Say Nothin’,” pits a jittery Timbalandish beat against the most inspired unintelligible muttering this side of that blond dude on King of the Hill. “Stay Cool” is a finger-snapping old-school R&B epiphany, and “Duck Down!” is a thick bitches’ brew of horns and handclaps and something that twangs like a Jew’s harp. Black Thought, whose logorrheic flow spills into every available space, resorts to some empty bragging and subpar rhyming on occasion, but he still manages to squeeze in twice as many great lines as most other lyricists. Even the 16-minute (!) closer has as many moments of transcendence as it does of self-indulgence, and perhaps most important, genius drummer ?uestlove is still in the band, which means that, at the very least, you’re going to hear some primo high-hat action. If Tipping were just another disposable hip-pop bagatelle, it would be easier to accept than this embarrassing hybrid, in which cringe-worthy clichés and commercial concessions corrupt every other good idea. That it’s way more substantive than, say, 50 Cent goes without saying, but it’s a Roots album, for chrissakes. We expect more.
René Spencer Saller reviews new music for Illinois Times. Reach her at rssaller@core.com.
This article appears in Aug 5-11, 2004.
