even*rude, Convertible, G.L.U.E.,
Afrodisiac
Club Confession @ The Gig, Hollywood
January 24, 1998
There is often great wisdom to be found in a frivolous novelty hit. You just have to look. Consider the Offspring’s latest mega-single, “Pretty Fly (For A White Guy)” -- an irresistibly or annoyingly (you chose) catchy tale of a suburban white, wannaB-boy. Almost everyone knows the type: the kid from on the hill who dresses like a Wu Tang-banger to woo all the girlies down at the South Coast mall; the kind of annoying poser that even the blacks and latinos he’s supposedly down with threaten to “kick his lily ass” whenever he comes around in his lowered Acura.
“The world loves a wannabe...” snickers the Offspring’s sarcastic Dexter Holland, and the implication is obvious: White teens should stop trying to act black and stick to their own race. Or should they? “Hey, hey/ do that brand new thing” the last line of the song’s lyrics, modifies the attack on white posing as actually ridiculing mere trendiness instead. One hopes this is the underlying morality of the tale, and not a not-so-subtle racism, as some have suggested. Apparent separatism aside, white rockers should be the last ones in line to accuse someone else of stealing black culture, no?
Ah, Irony. The Nineties zeitgeist, the pervasive idiom of so-called Slacker culture. Thank the rock gods for it, because when it comes to being fickle trend-hoppers, Gen Xers like the Offspring should view that song’s clueless “hero” with a “there-but-for-the-grace-of-god” sigh. Just imagine the character five years ago, when he wore a flannel shirt and ripped jeans to a Pearl Jam show. Or back in ‘94, sporting his Dr. Seuss Cat hat as he bought bunk ecstacy at a rave. Of course, last year he was born again, briefly, at a ska revival, before he found out that the whole swing thing was money, baby... ad infinitum.
Which brings us, sort of, to the debut of Club Confession, a new weekly bill of rock and hip hop at The Gig in Hollywood. Debuting to a respectably-sized crowd (Sundays are notoriously dead in L.A., I am told), the evening offered a tag-team strategy of alternating sets by alt-rockers, hardcore rappers, and djs—all of which is, according to the flyer, “brought to you in SIN-O-VISION by even rude.” What the hell “sin-o-vision” is we never find out, but the nagging skepticism inherent whenever confronting white boys doing the black thang is decidedly put to rest by even*rude’s quality talent booking and a kick-booty closing set.
Formed two years ago, even*rude has gambled, in a way, by not jumping on the hip hop/ska/hard rock bandwagon now making its rounds on major label marketing strategies. By staying on a local indie label and focusing on grass-roots tactics (of which Club Confession’s stylistically diverse bill is one noble aspect), the band has sacrificed the fast track to stardom and put it energy into building a loyal fan base and word-of-mouth buzz.
Judging by the quartet’s tight set of ska-funk workouts and groove-punk progressions, even rude won’t shrink from the uphill climb ahead of them. They have to sense it won’t be easy. Already their self-described sound, quoted in these pages as “Modern rock... Hip Hop, Funk and Ska” [ShadowLand #1, 2.98] seems a bit dated. Not that the band shows any signs of self-consciousness on this night. Following two impressive sets of hip-hop (Afrodisiac, G.L.U.E.) and one perplexing set of scrunge (Convertible), the evening’s hosts take the stage with a confidence rare to such relative newcomers. Then again, when has confidence ever been a problem for anyone in hip hop?
Stopping midway through their brief set of originals like “Meteor” and “Jive Turkey,” bassist Dave Wadsworth and frontman Chris King -- whose accessible yet edgy presence gives him a sort of everypunk charisma, call it the “Ad Rock Quality” -- suddenly exchange mic and bass guitar for a hyped-up run through of Run DMC’s “You Be Illin’.”
And from the call and response enthusiasm of “Queen of the Cowboy” to the pummeling climax of their set closer, “Still,” even rude sets the joint on fire with an ever-evolving flux of ska-thrash and punkadelica. While their musical chops at times sound limited—guitartist Cake could have a bit more fun with his job, while Wadsworth sometimes lets his basslines slide in favor of karate kicks—few in the crowd tonight will notice, much less complain. More importantly, their instincts for rump-shaking, head banging sounds promise improvement as their cohesiveness grows.
Judging by the very skilled members of the very African-American rap act G.L.U.E.—one of whom, Dre B Gone, will actually join King for some freestyling onstage before the night is over—even rude’s got the skills to prove there are always exceptions to the rules. Especially for a group of mighty fly white guys.
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This article originally appeared in Shadowland
magazine.
©2001 Will K. Shilling