NASTY ROX INCORPORATED
THERE was a time when Nasty Rox could have soiled our gills, thrust themselves upon us with some kind of determination, abused our expectations. As it is, they make another pop record, dull our hearts and sully what is left of our faith in hip-hop dance confusion.
You might as well start with the sleeve, wherein Dave Dorrell is gustily thanked and quite rightfully too. Here is a truely great pop scoundrel, one who knows that frippery knocks fraternity into a cocked hat, one who jsutifies the claims that I heard the other night that he should be honoured by the erection of a statue in Leicester Square. If only it hadn‘t been for this record…
Nasty Rox are great. If you’re old, crumbly and this James Brown is the Third Coming. I speak on behalf of the nation when I ay that they’re not, he’s not and that they’re backing a 50-1 outsider.
“Escape From New York” is a fabulous chunk of jittery hip-hop thrash, ending Side One of the album/but locating itself in exactly a year gone-by, it looks over eager to align itself with a linear progression. Hence The Atlantic wastes burn with increasingly irrelevant determination.
“9th Wonder”, “10th Wonder”, “Blow” and “Nobby’s One” thump rigerously, laden with the kind of big beat abandon that went out with drainpipe jeans. There’s none of the simplistic gibberish of its Acid House descendents, but also none of the hippety hoppity spunk of its ancestors. It means nothing and, saddest of all, it wants to be invisible.
If only there were seams, fissures, and even if I’m loath to say it, soul. If the edges settled rather less complacently, if the middle gave in to a rubbery delight. Of course, sadly, it doesn’t, and “Cash” becomes a lumpen, stodgy exercise in the art of the ironic title. Money needs imagination. Poverty, unfortunately, preys on dullards. Get wise, Quick.