Dead Beats from the attic

Of course it is here primarily concerned to praise the grandiose second album of Scottish crossover lineup Young Fathers and praise. Because it's almost become even better than their first. And because they have so managed any doubt from the world, the award of the Mercury Prizes last year for precisely that debut may have come too soon. It is here, however, to provide the necessary vindication for a term which in this country could lead a tranquil and blameless existence for decades until the (if not personal) interaction of a certain Rudi V. brought him into shameful disrepute: The rumble. No idea where the bad reputation comes, finally, there was this in the distant past even special chambers (hashtag: Willi Schwabe), where your heart's content could indulge the disordered chaos, who had no desire to straightforwardness, clarity and perfection. And amazing things could unearth.

The Young Fathers have brought it with White Men Are Black Men Too for true mastery in the rumble, the twelve pieces are so varied, raw and ungestühm how it was to be expected from a second album hardly a safe anyway sounds decidedly different. Each of the songs a very dark rumbling from far below, tense deadbeats, sometimes as lopsided Electro Spiritual (Feasting), sometimes as a feverish klackernder sound with an undertone genuschelten Lyrics (Rain or Shine) wild, archaic, threatening. Wherever TV On The Radio have somewhat neglected over time for the big pop rhythm component, the three guys from Edinburgh hew powerful on the skins. In Shame, the loops are thudding to nasty guitars in 27 hop over turned Afrobeat in the round, as if there is no curfew.

Old Rock n Roll is like an old, creaking steamship therefore, on which you have taken to a conjuring Totentanz and matching stimulants was no shortage. What somehow also hinhaut, because here he is indeed just buried, the good, the brave black man: im tired of playing the good black, I said im tired of playing the good black, Im tired of having to hold back Handsome white men are black men too, ni *** h to them, a gentleman to you. The whole glorious cry, Georgel and wrangling is not far from a David Lynch and his nightmarish, surreal pictorial cosmos, in which the craziest shapes are also always the most fascinating. The way how the Young Fathers remuneration of Soul, Big Beat, traditional, blues and hip-hop mix with each other, is therefore no less than a high-energy and entertaining lesson in musical history. mapambulo: blog