Chok Rock
Big City LoserScene: a shining, golden office somewhere in the North London of 2001. Brightly coloured beanbags are scattered about the place resplendent with devastatingly hip “movers and shakers” of the “scene”.
<ring ring!> (a phone rings)
Warp guy: Hello? Warp Records: “where the magic happens”!
<stylish guffaws and loud high fives can be heard across the open-plan>
AFX: Gaarr. Oi’m sat in moy tarnk or moy bunker or wherever it wuz we saird it wuz I live and oi realoised moy contraarct’s up.
Warp guy: Ahem <a cold sweat collects in the tramlines of an eyebrow> er… yes. We were going to call you about that. I presume you’ll be staying with us, Mr James? We feel our partnership has…
AFX: Gaarr. Oi doubt I be stickin around. Oi think oi’ll stick to purrin’ out any ol’ shite fur the fanboys on my own. Gaarr. Pay ‘em orl barck fer ignorin moy recommendin Stockhausen ‘n’ that Phillip Glaarss all these years. Gaarr. <click>
Warp guy: Oh shit.
<as he looks around, the beanbags turn to dust and 3 Apple Macs burst into flame. Screaming is heard.>
Yes. Ever since their prize Cornish game hen flew the nest, Warp has been on the search to replace the reason they all have jobs in the first place. It’s seen their roster fly in all manner of directions with guitars being embraced and unpopular hip-hop drawn into the fold with generally disappointing results (OK, Maximo Park are in the charts but what the fuck is that about?).
But look! It seems a group of French graphic designers are the latest hope for the cause and, with them, they bring a special new hat for Warp. It’s a jaunty hat, a cosmopolitan hat, but most of all it’s a slinky pop chapeau.
Opening with a quick-footed electro bubble and crack which could easily have come from Pharrell’s sex-filtered fingers, the most surprising thing about Chok Rock (ignore the crap name) is that, instead of setting the bar for the mainstream and giving Timbaland something to think about, the tables have turned, and Warp are listening to pop music.
Thankfully, this says more about the sporadically excellent state of the Top 40 than anything else as the EP slides, floats and dives artfully like Jacques Cousteau in his prime. In fact, opener Give It Up reminds me most of the piped-in music Bill Murray gets his underwater thing on to in that Steve Zissou film. A small but infinitesimally funky micro-boogie. Swirling sound effects and cut-up vocal samples dash in and out but never once interfere with the groove. Messing with the groove is not sexy and this record most definitely is.
The robot dance in your pants continues through into Buzz (the gap between tracks merely a pause before the groove goes on unabated) but this time the mosaic of samples and influences steps up and you get a Beastie Boys yell, some Lenny Kravitz fuzzbox funk and what has to be the keyboard tapestry behind Fatboy’s Bird of Prey. Don’t quote me on that last one, I’ve been racking my brain about it for days.
And that’s how things stay throughout Big City Loser. You’ve got the French lounge house moments, the relaxed Daft Punk acid stabs, the Moon Safari rip-off and they all drip with relaxed, sophisticated afternoon sex.
In fact, having listened to it through a couple of times, there appears to be a saucy structure to the thing: each movement of this libidinous collection has the aforementioned groove on but, without fail, they all close on a post-coital wind-down section to give you time to light a gauloise and denounce Baudrillard as un imbecile de babillage before getting back down to it.
The epic Give It Up is the initial encounter; stamina unchecked it simply ends with a half-pace fade-out before the second and third courses with their more inventive and quick to-ing and fro-ing – you filthy perverts. Incredibly, both breathlessly end up with lounge-jazz keyboard solos. How obvious do they want to be? Finally, the litigiously air-like finale of Take A Plane sends you into blissful slumber in a pool of montmartre sunshine. Deep breath everyone.
OK, I may have become a little carried away with that but, damn, I need a glass of water.
If this is music for a big city loser then it’s less of the Camden tramp begging for crack and more like a modern version The Dreamers in Bertolucci’s film; lazing round paris in the sun, pausing only to have careless threesomes on a diet of wine, weed and really, really nice cheese.
PS: OK, about my slight downer on Warp before, !!! are pretty sweet and the Jamie Lidell album sounds like it’s going to spit on my theory too but get off my back alright? I’m trying to relax.
PPS: Any resemblance between the characters herein and real persons living or otherwise is purely coincidental :)
<ring ring!> (a phone rings)
Warp guy: Hello? Warp Records: “where the magic happens”!
<stylish guffaws and loud high fives can be heard across the open-plan>
AFX: Gaarr. Oi’m sat in moy tarnk or moy bunker or wherever it wuz we saird it wuz I live and oi realoised moy contraarct’s up.
Warp guy: Ahem <a cold sweat collects in the tramlines of an eyebrow> er… yes. We were going to call you about that. I presume you’ll be staying with us, Mr James? We feel our partnership has…
AFX: Gaarr. Oi doubt I be stickin around. Oi think oi’ll stick to purrin’ out any ol’ shite fur the fanboys on my own. Gaarr. Pay ‘em orl barck fer ignorin moy recommendin Stockhausen ‘n’ that Phillip Glaarss all these years. Gaarr. <click>
Warp guy: Oh shit.
<as he looks around, the beanbags turn to dust and 3 Apple Macs burst into flame. Screaming is heard.>
Yes. Ever since their prize Cornish game hen flew the nest, Warp has been on the search to replace the reason they all have jobs in the first place. It’s seen their roster fly in all manner of directions with guitars being embraced and unpopular hip-hop drawn into the fold with generally disappointing results (OK, Maximo Park are in the charts but what the fuck is that about?).
But look! It seems a group of French graphic designers are the latest hope for the cause and, with them, they bring a special new hat for Warp. It’s a jaunty hat, a cosmopolitan hat, but most of all it’s a slinky pop chapeau.
Opening with a quick-footed electro bubble and crack which could easily have come from Pharrell’s sex-filtered fingers, the most surprising thing about Chok Rock (ignore the crap name) is that, instead of setting the bar for the mainstream and giving Timbaland something to think about, the tables have turned, and Warp are listening to pop music.
Thankfully, this says more about the sporadically excellent state of the Top 40 than anything else as the EP slides, floats and dives artfully like Jacques Cousteau in his prime. In fact, opener Give It Up reminds me most of the piped-in music Bill Murray gets his underwater thing on to in that Steve Zissou film. A small but infinitesimally funky micro-boogie. Swirling sound effects and cut-up vocal samples dash in and out but never once interfere with the groove. Messing with the groove is not sexy and this record most definitely is.
The robot dance in your pants continues through into Buzz (the gap between tracks merely a pause before the groove goes on unabated) but this time the mosaic of samples and influences steps up and you get a Beastie Boys yell, some Lenny Kravitz fuzzbox funk and what has to be the keyboard tapestry behind Fatboy’s Bird of Prey. Don’t quote me on that last one, I’ve been racking my brain about it for days.
And that’s how things stay throughout Big City Loser. You’ve got the French lounge house moments, the relaxed Daft Punk acid stabs, the Moon Safari rip-off and they all drip with relaxed, sophisticated afternoon sex.
In fact, having listened to it through a couple of times, there appears to be a saucy structure to the thing: each movement of this libidinous collection has the aforementioned groove on but, without fail, they all close on a post-coital wind-down section to give you time to light a gauloise and denounce Baudrillard as un imbecile de babillage before getting back down to it.
The epic Give It Up is the initial encounter; stamina unchecked it simply ends with a half-pace fade-out before the second and third courses with their more inventive and quick to-ing and fro-ing – you filthy perverts. Incredibly, both breathlessly end up with lounge-jazz keyboard solos. How obvious do they want to be? Finally, the litigiously air-like finale of Take A Plane sends you into blissful slumber in a pool of montmartre sunshine. Deep breath everyone.
OK, I may have become a little carried away with that but, damn, I need a glass of water.
If this is music for a big city loser then it’s less of the Camden tramp begging for crack and more like a modern version The Dreamers in Bertolucci’s film; lazing round paris in the sun, pausing only to have careless threesomes on a diet of wine, weed and really, really nice cheese.
PS: OK, about my slight downer on Warp before, !!! are pretty sweet and the Jamie Lidell album sounds like it’s going to spit on my theory too but get off my back alright? I’m trying to relax.
PPS: Any resemblance between the characters herein and real persons living or otherwise is purely coincidental :)
