Pete Rock “Best Believe (feat. Redman & LD)” NY’s Finest Nature Sounds 2008

I’m a devout follower of All Things Soul Brother as much as the next member of the Pete Rock Appreciation Society (just ask Dan Love), but half a dozen listens into the producer’s latest NY’s Finest (2008) and I still can’t lift the weight of disappointment off my shoulders. The issue lies not with his masterful manipulation of sounds and beats, which is always a wonder to behold, but rather with the C-list lineup of lyricists that, with a few meager exceptions, I really couldn’t give a rat’s about. Add to that a number of questionable detours into styles that clearly aren’t Pete’s foray as well as an overall lack of cohesiveness that the Soul Survivor installments were able to overcome, and what’s left is a haphazard mess of a record with little worth salvaging. Two of the tracks I genuinely never want to hear again: the ill-advised reggae tripe of “Ready Fe War,” and the sole guest production, Green Lantern’s “Don’t Be Mad,” which bears the distinction of having the most stupefyingly moronic hook I’ve heard in years. Even an appearance from Newark’s golden-agers Lords of the Underground can’t keep “The Best Secret” from deflating and falling flat. Tellingly, the record’s two (arguably) strongest selections dropped over a year ago on the “914″/”The PJ’s” 12″, the latter of which features stellar verses from Raekwon and Masta Killa. The rest, it seems, is just padding.

Still, this is Pete Rock we’re talking about, so the production rarely falters, each track radiating with the same warm, soulful bounce that’s characterized his work for nearly twenty years. It’s a detectable feel that’s difficult to place a finger on but is undeniably there, like the slick, velvety groove that makes up for the retarded garbling of Jim Jones and Max B on “We Roll” or the midnight paranoia that overshadows the dulling gun talk from Royal Flush on “Questions.” The always-entertaining Redman and weed carrier LD drop in to contribute to one of the few highlights on “Best Believe,” a mid-tempo cut laced with some juicy scratching and plenty of pimp swagger. Pete’s mic skills, which are more dominant on NY’s Finest than on past solo jaunts, remain tolerable and occasionally cringing, adhering to the usual “respect the game/longevity” content we’ve grown to expect from him. And while a somewhat clumsy 16 from Pete is certainly preferable to, say, a verse from Papoose, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss the days when Puba regularly ghostwrote for the guy. My prediction is that I’ll likely shelve this disc by next week until the double-LP vinyl of NY’s Finest instrumentals is (hopefully) released, at which point I can enjoy the record free of all the verbal clutter.

“Best Believe” – Pete Rock feat. Redman & LD 4:38 (NY’s Finest, Nature Sounds 2008)

I’ve never really been a “live show” guy. Rarely has the thrill of seeing a band play in front of an audience become some sort of transcendent experience for me like it apparently is for everyone else, which eventually becomes a bragging point in a game of one-upmanship for most (“Have you heard the new XYZ record? It’s good.” “Yeah. But have you seen them live?”). There’s a good reason why you don’t see a category for “Live Show Reviews” anywhere on this site, and a lot of it has to do with the old scale of preference, the point in a discussion where I hold my palms up and make a gentle juggling motion. To wit, would I rather:

Pay an exorbitant ticket price to see said band, stand around impatiently through a handful of local opening acts ranging from passably mediocre to flat-out awful, pay $7.50 for ten ounces in a plastic cup when a six-pack of the same beer would cost less at the liquor store near my house, wait as the headlining band takes their sweet-ass time to appear long after the sound crew has everything set up for them, realize that I forgot to bring a pair of earplugs and head to the bathroom for a wad of gritty toilet paper that would cause second-degree burns on the toughest ass cheeks, continually make “WTF?!?” gestures at the visibly high sound guy for his incompetence at his job, silently wish a sweetly violent death on that Pelé-looking asshole who insists on standing front and center, suppress my gag reflex when the foul beer from a tap that hasn’t been cleaned since the Reagan years begins to make its way back up my esophagus, wonder why said band won’t play the song I want to hear them play, inexplicably stay for the encore which consists of two poorly-rehearsed covers, squeeze myself into the herd as we slowly inch toward the exits, arrive home late and smelling of sweat and booze, and feel like shit the next day at work no matter how many Emergen-C packets I dump into my coffee,

or…

Enjoy a quiet and relaxing evening at home, listening to said band’s record in the comfort of my, um, “listening” chair (yes, that’s what I call it), hearing them play the song I want to hear them play when I want them to play it, sipping a cold beer or glass of wine, and marveling over the subtle application of hand claps in the left channel during the last chorus and outro?

There was a time in my younger, extroverted days when it seemed like I was going to see a band at least once a week, leaving the venue in orgiastic ecstasy (Mouse on Mars) or with the worst headache imaginable (Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy). Eventually I became burned out on the whole thing, to the point where now I’ll catch a live act maybe twice a year, usually a hip hop show at my wife’s dire insistence or a friend’s band at a half-empty bar on a Tuesday night. Occasionally, as I’m nodding my head complacently and resisting my natural urges so I won’t have to slosh through the urine-soaked restroom, I fondly reminisce on the night when I was first exposed to this numbing experience and the band that started it all: Cracker. Yeah. That Cracker.

You see, when I was 14 or so I went through an incorrigible bout of obsession with ’80s Santa Cruz eclectics Camper Van Beethoven. You couldn’t tell me shit about them. I treasured everything by the band, including the post-split Monks of Doom and Hieronymus Firebrain records along with frontman David Lowery’s blatant stab at tepid ’70s country-rock, the aforementioned Cracker. When I found out that Cracker was playing an all-ages show 45 minutes away, at the now-demolished TRAX Nightclub in Charlottesville, Virginia, I pleaded with everyone I knew who possessed a valid driver’s license to accompany me. The only person who agreed to taxi me over there was a guy two years older than me, a friend of a friend named Mike. I didn’t know him too well and his tastes in music were highly questionable, but he had a car and that’s all that mattered. I coaxed a hesitant approval out of my parents and Mike and I solidified plans a few weeks in advance. The show was on a weeknight, but since it was the middle of summer, I only had to worry about showing up to my part-time job the next morning.

On the evening of the event Mike picked me up in his gas-guzzling tank of an automobile, an early-’80s model Mercedes that was as unsightly as it was uncomfortable. Mike was the kind of guy who got a kick out of telling people he drove a Benz, despite the fact that there was a piss-yellow ‘79 Datsun pickup down the street that would have raised more eyebrows than his clangorous boat-on-wheels. We made small talk on the way to the venue as I tried to play it cool and subside the anxiety I felt at seeing my first live show. As we neared the club I began to panic: what if it sold out? What if we can’t find parking and miss the set? How will I get home if Mike decides to ditch me? Yet we arrived in time to see the opening act, though I have no recollection about them other than that they were some local jam-band with an alarming number of followers, mostly hippie chicks who looked like they hadn’t showered in a good week.

The rest of the show was mostly a blur. Not in a I-got-drunk-and-don’t-remember blur, but more of an uneventful, mildly disappointing, not-worth-remembering sort of blur. Lowery and company came on and performed a polite little set of tunes from their first two records (this was on their Kerosene Hat [1993] tour) with a Grateful Dead cover sprinkled in for good measure. The air-conditioning was busted and the place was suffocating. The audience was a late-’20s/early-’30s yuppie crowd, and clearly enjoyed guitarist Johnny Hickman’s corny facial expressions during his solos. I somehow got my hands on a warm beer that I left on the bar after a few bitter sips, later telling Mike that I “chugged it.” I wanted to join in the enthusiasm and excitement that everyone was intoxicated with, this communal rejoicing in loud rock ‘n roll, but I couldn’t shake the inescapable feeling of detachment. Here was one of my musical idols mere feet in front of me, and all I could focus on was why the long-haired idiot next to me in a pit-stained white tee kept stepping on my toes. Maybe I would have reacted differently if it were Camper Van Beethoven on stage, but Cracker wasn’t too bad. Why couldn’t I ignore the urge to get the hell out of there?

As we exited the club I felt drained, physically and emotionally. Mike, however, wanted to go “scouting for college babes,” so we cruised around the University of Virginia campus looking for a “kegger.” It was well after midnight on a weeknight in July, but somehow we stumbled upon a house that looked promising, and I soon found myself alone on the front steps nursing a sweaty can of Natty Light while Mike tried unsuccessfully to talk his way into the pants of any female who happened to slip into his visual orbit. Finally, the cops showed up and quashed the already-dead party, much to my relief as I hid in the bushes by the Mercedes. I initially panicked at Mike’s fumbling, off-hand comment of, “Dude, I don’t know if I’m cool to drive,” until it dawned on me that the guy had maybe three beers the entire evening, two of which had less natural alcohol than a glass of grapefruit juice. I slumbered lifelessly in the front seat on the way home, pretending I was drunk so I wouldn’t have to make conversation. Naturally, I told every one of my friends the next day that the show “kicked ass,” and, on occasions when I felt like flexing some creativity with my storytelling, lying through my teeth as I would describe the chick who totally took her top off and flashed the crowd during “Euro-Trash Girl.”

I like to think that this scarring childhood experience solely contributes to my aversion to musical venues, but I’m also open to the depressing realization that I’m probably just getting old. Years later, when I caught Camper Van Beethoven on their reunion tour, I made my peace with Mr. Lowery as he led the band through ripping renditions of their catalog that I knew and loved so well. For the unforeseeable future, however, I’ll stick with YouTube clips and live DVDs if I want to enjoy seeing a band perform in front of a crowd. Sorry, but I prefer the comfort of my couch to a sweaty, sticky bar stool. I’m weird like that.

“Cowboys from Hollywood” – Camper Van Beethoven 1:43 (II & III, IRS 1986)

“Euro-Trash Girl” – Cracker 8:04 (Kerosene Hat, Virgin 1993)