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Friday, Sept. 30, 2005
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Rap CD features southern sonic styles
Bumpin' Banner
Reviewed by Paul Thompson
Collegian Staff Writer
I may not ride on spinners or have any wood-grain in my dash, but when I roll through my hood in my four-cylinder Toyota Camry, only the flyest jams will do.
The Southern rap music of the last five years or so seems to be designed with one purpose in mind: to be played as loudly as possible, preferably while driving a cool car. I'm not the kind of guy who tricks out a Cadillac with 22-inch dubs or candy-paint, nor am I the kind of guy who, based on outside appearances, should really have any business listening to Lil Scrappy or his Dirty South brethren. But I do, pretty much every time I'm behind the wheel. With my windows down and the bass way up, what else am I going to listen to on the way to Sheetz? Lifehouse? You see my point.
But take that Three 6 Mafia CD out of your Saturn station wagon and stick it in that tinny little boom box in your dorm room and the effect isn't quite the same, is it? The hollowed-out thump that warned of impending Armageddon on the streets turns into a dull, watery thud, and those screeching synthesizers become just another ring tone from a passing cell phone. But the real loss those caterers of crunk fall prey to from Honda to headphones is the thing that makes rap, well, rap. The problem with Southern rhymers? Most of them can't rhyme.
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3 of 5 paws
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That might seem like a criticism (which it is), but it's not exactly a complaint.
I could care less what Master P is saying; I just want to listen to "Make Em Say Ugh" at a volume that might affect the earth's orbit. I am content to leave my Trillville disc in the car and keep my Elliott Smith in my bedroom, and never shall the two meet. But if there were only a way to bring the streets to the home of my sock-drawer, well, that'd be dope. But aside from Outkast, the closest we're likely to get is David Banner.
David Banner is named after the alter ego of the TV version of the Incredible Hulk (dig the specificity, Seth Cohen), and that's fitting. Though in person, David Banner seems like a nice, smart, down-to-earth guy who loves to rep his home state of Mississippi, on record, he's a gigantic green beast, barking loudly over his self-styled Delta-funk beats. On his fourth album, Certified, Banner's toned down some of the sonic brutality of his earlier work to craft a number of memorable, almost catchy hooks. But if Certified proves anything, it's that Banner's still not ready to break free of the Southern rap stigma, and though it's probably his most satisfying work to date, it's still one for the drop-top, not the dormitory.
When Banner slows things down, as he does on lead single "Play," it becomes immediately clear how uncomfortable he is with quiet-time; the song is a lawsuit waiting to happen, a note-for-note rip-off of the now-ubiquitous Ying Yang Twins' "Whisper Song." And it says something about Banner's talent that "socially-conscious" (that's code for "overrated") rhymers Talib Kweli and Dead Prez show up on "Ridin'," something they'd never do for Crime Mob.
Banner's a far more nuanced producer than his closest sonic counterpart, Lil' Jon, and a far more engaging rapper then almost everybody else in the dirty-dirty. But what does that mean for an album meant to be played at a decibel level that renders things like "nuance" and "words" useless?
Banner could be dropping mad Shakespearean science, and you wouldn't be able to make any of it out. It's not that I'm not listening for it; that's my job. But it's not the point of his music. The point is to make colossal noise.
Certified isn't so much good, or bad. But played at the right volume (and at the right velocity), it's a truly incredible Hulk of a record.
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