MM..Food?

MF Doom

(Rhymesayers)

A supervillain, single-mindedly devoted to taking over the world; a recluse, never appearing in public without his trademark metal mask; a mad genius, never sleeping so that he can work in his lab all day and night: these are the images maintained by MF Doom. While every aspect of the comic book persona may not be true to life, the description of his work ethic is: MM..Food? is his ninth (ninth!) LP in the last two years, all released under various aliases. Even more impressive than the quantity has been the quality, as all of these have been anywhere between good (the Special Herbs instrumental series) and phenomenal (this year’s collaboration with producer Madlib, Madvillainy).

MM..Food? is no departure from form. The production (by Metal Face Doom himself on 12 of the 15 tracks here) is direct and sample-oriented. This is the anti-crunk: trebly, chill, metallic and hyperaware. Guest appearances, a frequent crutch employed by much of current hip-hop, are mostly absent; this guy has verses to spare anyway, why clutter the track with less-skilled MCs?

Lyrically, Doom’s leitmotif is, well, food. All the track names are culinary, and food metaphors are frequent in his intricately (some would say randomly) internally rhymed flows. What this fixation means depends on how much credit you give him. It could either be a simple, nonsensical way of unifying the album, showing that he can rap about absolutely anything, or it could be a comment on the state of hip-hop. With radio rap big on adolescent lyrics of sex and violence, is a Sesame Street-sampling song about cookies an attempt at out-immaturing Juvenile?

The album is something less than cohesive, using every tone between dead serious and comical. Sincerity sinks “Deep Fried Frenz” (not even Kanye West would rhyme “codependents” with “codefendants”) right after a truly funny misappropriation of Cole Porter and some of the best sound collages in recent memory. The Metal Fingered Villain is definitely good at what he does, but this isn’t his masterwork. Here his prolific release schedule works against him, as there are so many other Doom albums to compare his latest against. Virgins to his work are fully advised to check out February’s Madvillainy first. If MM..Food? is a letdown, it’s only because he has set the bar so high. Like the man says, “these metal fingers be holdin’ hot shit.”

—Eric Fritz

Love, Angel, Music, Baby

Gwen Stefani

(Interscope Records)

No Doubt’s Tragic Kingdom came out when I was in sixth grade, and it was one of my earliest CD purchases. Simultaneously an addictive pop album and an interesting if not terribly coherent concept piece, it still pops up in my playlist from time to time.

But replacing her band with a random mix of producers has not been kind to Gwen

Stefani or her new solo album, Love, Angel, Music, Baby. It is, with slight exceptions, a nearly unlistenable piece of crap. It inspires a trancelike state of boredom punctuated by forehead-slapping grimaces of sympathetic embarrassment at its colossally stupid lyrics. The pain starts with the opening track, “What You Waiting For,” which opens with a generic beat and leads into a repeating chorus of “take a chance, you stupid ho.” It’s followed by “Rich Girl,” an excruciating cover of “If I Were a Rich Man” from Fiddler on the Roof. In case you don’t remember, there was a techno song a few years back that was more or less the same exact thing. Stefani’s version is just as annoying as that one was, and is far less original to boot.

Then we get her strange attempt at a Queen anthem, “Hollaback Girl,” complete with a “We Will Rock You”-style stomped intro and a riff and lyric from “Another One Bites the Dust.” Then, Stefani sings lines like “Uh-huh, that’s my shit/all you girls stomp your feet like this” and my favorite line on the album, “the shit is bananas/B-A-N-A-N-A-S.”

One of the least horrible tracks on the album, “Bubble Pop Electric,” owes much to the contribution of Andre 3000, who appears here in his Johnny Vulture alter-ego. It’s got a fun, driving beat and a great Jamiroquai-esque chorus, but yet again the lyrics slaughter it. The song’s meaningless title is spoken over and over in the chorus, which generated confused looks and questions of “what the hell?” from anyone who was in the room with me while I was listening to it. And then there’s that one line that ensures you should never play this CD with your parents in the room, or while hooking up: “I want to blow you now/I want your candy cream.”