The Generation Gap never went away — it’s just on the down-low. When everyone is hip — the albatross of generations XYZ with Boomer parentage — a potentially alienating sound alone distinguishes youth aesthetics. Some notable generational culture-war fodder of recent months includes:
Jamiroquai’s latest, Dynamite (Epic/Sony BMG; HH 1/2), returns to the British group’s lucrative techno-funk sound. There are few surprises from leader Jason Kay, still very much besotted with the golden age of soul jazz, Terry Callier, Kajagoogoo’s Limahl and Chic’s prescient, slick urban pop. Nimble-footed Kay remains the canniest purveyor of pixilated boogie for the iPod/Grand Theft Auto Era. The excesses of 70s music abound, down to the vocodered vocals of “Feels Just Like It Should” and obligatory rent-a-soul via sassy sista chorale as pioneered by the Rolling Stones and Humble Pie. On Dynamite, the once-great Pointer Sisters, who started out with cult icons Betty Davis and Sylvester, surface from their Vegas half-life. On the one hand, Kay has long piloted a Tardis formed from the string synths and poppin’ basslines of disco — but he’s not as spry an Afrofuturist as Pharrell. On the other, drugs and Denise Van Outen blunted his reality for a spell. Thus, despite the new album’s “(Don’t) Give Hate a Chance,” the vital passion and humanist urgency of debut Emergency On Planet Earth and portions of 1997 US breakthrough Travelling Without Moving are definitely diminished. Dynamite is serviceable Fuzak for the metropolitan hipster lounges, nothing more.
Kay may’ve achieved a Heart Condition-type transfer of power from Stevie Wonder, but Jamiroquai is being trumped by Brazilian artist Curumin as the greatest exogamous torchbearer for Wonderlove. Formerly of funk-samba ensemble Zomba, Luciano Nakata Albuquerque, born in Brazil to Spanish/Japanese parents, early on earned the moniker “Curumin,” an indigenous epithet for precocious children. He formed his first rock band at age 8 and his instrumental funk outfit ZU at 10. The Sao Paulo native’s debut Achados E Perdidos (Quannum, HHHH) includes a cover of Wonder’s “You Haven’t Done Nothing” but the Motown star’s influence is felt everywhere, from fatback synth basslines to organ runs and sanctified vocals.
You also can hear Jorge Ben, Run-DMC, the B-52s, Bebeto, Devo and Brazilian punkette Andrea Marquee in Curumin’s mix. No disco kitsch mars his supple grooves, though, and electronica flourishes are tethered by acoustic guitar and live drums. Songs like “Guerreiro,” featuring traditional cuica, ganza and cavaquinho; “Acorda, Simpatico,” which channels the delicate minor-chord masterpieces of Gil Scott-Heron and Brian Jackson; and folky “Tudo Bem Malandro” show equal allegiance to above-the-border funk and samba. The pandeiro-spiced Wonder cover actually (dare I say?) acts as meta-expansion of the original, with a spooky, swamp-funk arrangement rendering it the post-Katrina anthem for pouring some libation while cursing the government. The question of “Who Stole the Soul?” doesn’t shadow Achados E Perdidos, causing one to hope Curumin becomes another great Brazilian export. Streets from Sao Paulo to San Francisco should be checking for his blend of baile funk, bossa and bounce for years to come.
The A.K.A.s (Are Everywhere), young upstarts from New York who rocked the Visulite in September, delineate their milieu on the single “Generation Vexed.” Acolytes of such great proto-punk bands as the Flamin’ Groovies and Chesterfield Kings, the A.K.A.s’ Farfisa-driven White Doves & Smoking Guns (Fueled By Ramen; HHH) comments on life during wartime with scrappy Apple attitude. These A.K.A.s (distinct from the hallowed black frat) valiantly bear the torch for a pre-Giuliani New York in which the Mercer Art Center never imploded, CBGB was far from the auction block and rap was solely local.
Another New Rock City band that reaches back to look ahead is the Giraffes, a band that delivers its tunes with an ol’ skool punk swagger. These Brooklyn boys call themselves “Cock in Mouth Rock.” Essentially, they sound like a cross between turn of the 21st century rap-metallists and stoner rock as embodied by Queens of the Stone Age.
“Honey Baby Child,” the best song on the Giraffes’ self-titled full-length debut (Razor & Tie; HHH), spotlights this synthesis but goes beyond QOTSA front man Josh Homme’s hi-octane lonesome to a heavy blues space wherein the Yankee band could share the stage with 70s Capricorn artist Elvin Bishop or current sludgy Rust Belt duo the Black Keys. The Giraffes also bring the funk on the sub-Funkadelic track “Haunted Heaven” (somebody’s been digging America Eats Its Young) and the album opener, “JR At His Worst.” I see a remix of the latter featuring Jimmy Castor in this band’s future.
This article appears in Nov 9-15, 2005.
