Marianne Faithfull – Broken English

Broken English

Marianne FaithfullBroken English Island ILPS 9570 (1979)


When rock and roll arrived in the 1950s, it was fundamentally a young person’s game.  It took a while, until a generation of people who came of age after the birth rock grew up, for rock to adapt to the context of — if not middle age — at least the age when the energy, idealism and intransigence of youth wear off.  So like a late 70s counterpart of Neil Young‘s Tonight’s the Night, and something of a partial precursor to Lou Reed‘s The Blue Mask, Broken English is a chronicle of trying to pull one’s self together at a time in life when there are plenty of mistakes to look back on.  You could maybe even throw Magazine‘s Secondhand Daylight into that category too.  There is no doubt this album sounds at least a little dated, with a tinge of the disco era lurking in the softened bass-heavy grooves.  Even if it doesn’t completely succeed, this album makes attempts at opening up new territories for rock music.  There is a sense of looking back and finding yourself to blame for every misstep and missed opportunity.  Imagine it this way: an effervescent and up-and-coming French chanson star is giddily on her way into a recording studio, but a coughing, wheezing figure walks out — nearly staggering — from a dark corner and with a gruff voice she offers a forbidding warning about how the future will really turn out, offering the disheartening forecast in…”broken English.”

John Frusciante – Curtains

Curtains

John FruscianteCurtains Record Collection 9362-48959-2 (2005)


The last entry in the series of albums John Frusciante began releasing in 2004, Curtains shines through with his best vocals and most consistent songwriting yet. An emphasis on acoustic guitar suits the somber music. Frusciante’s lyrics are still somewhat lacking, but this album is so heartfelt and genuine that such concerns wash away with the gentle melodies and soothing harmonies he always seems to find.

John Frusciante – The Will to Death

The Will to Death

John FruscianteThe Will to Death Record Collection 9362-48800-2 (2004)


When iconoclastic filmmaker John Cassavetes started making movies he funded entirely himself, he filmed them in a way that ignored getting a scene “in focus” or the sound “just right” if that would in any way inhibit the actors. The Will to Death is one of six (!) albums John Frusciante released in 2004. He recorded it without worrying about his guitar going slightly out of tune or missing a beat here or there. More important than any detail is the basic spirit of each song. That is what matters to music like this. It’s not polished, but it sure is sincere.

An interviewer once recalled meeting jazz luminary Sun Ra at Ra’s place in Philadelphia. Sun Ra was looking around for some sheet music while the interviewer waited. When asked about the random piles of things, Sun Ra responded by saying that if he organized, he would only find what he was looking for. That story might explain a great deal about John Frusciante’s The Will to Death (and maybe Cassavetes too). Recorded quickly, without extensive revising and adjusting, the album thrives in what Frusciante perhaps never expected his songs contained.

The brooding, frustrated guitar sounds mark the introspective music of The Will to Death, as might be obvious from the title alone. Yet, it is his resilient attitude that makes John Frusciante fascinating. He survives the contradictions of being the self-destructive outsider in his comfortable other gig (Red Hot Chili Peppers). Surviving wouldn’t seem to be his objective, though. There is an unending desire to grow in each of his songs. Despite the occasional maudlin flourishes and the many clumsy lyrics, there are no diversions from that basic desire. The missteps in the music are weaknesses it seems are shared in the person of John Frusciante. What places The Will to Death far above his previous solo recording is his courage to proceed straight through those flaws. The hidden beauty of the album is that it does proceed without stopping to question itself. To do that genuinely is always enough.

“The Will to Death” is probably the best song Frusciante has written to date. In a somber melody, he wraps the hopelessly romantic ideas that can define a life. “Loss,” “The Days Have Turned” and possibly “Time Runs Out” follow as the next best examples of Frusciante’s evolving songwriting skills. At their best, the songs, in both trivial detail and grand aspiration, simply are what they are. The same also goes for Frusciante’s voice. His vocals have greatly improved across the years. Together with Josh Klinghoffer‘s nicely suited contributions on drums and some miscellaneous instruments, the difficulties of making music like this fade away.

An album like this probably isn’t for everyone. The immediate pleasure of Red Hot Chili Peppers’ recordings will surely appeal to many more people. Those songs are direct reflections of attitudes often found so desirable. The Will to Death is something different. It is obscure, indirect. Any reaction to it has to be earnest because no guidance is given toward a particular one. John Frusciante has made a commendable — courageous — effort here. You might be surprised what you find in hearing it.

The Slits – Cut

Cut

The SlitsCut Island ILPS 9573 (1979)


The Slits did heroic things. Cut is empowering. Songs on this album celebrate whatever the group loves, brushing past hard times with mere innuendo along the way.  Pushing long bass lines from Tessa Pollitt that are louder than anything else and totally funky, the scratchy, sharp, staccato guitar of Viv Albertine comes laced over the top (with a dissonant, atonal sound Albertine frequently described as “oriental”), The Slits’ sound can’t be mistaken for any other. And that is even without mentioning the Teutonic vocals of Ari Up (at times billed as Ari Upp), who didn’t so much sing melodies as warble slogans along with the rest of the music. The Slits keep things interesting. They even manage that by doing as little as adding piano and shifting the rhythms on “Typical Girls.” All those little things sound so much more spectacular when set apart as they are on Cut. But in the big picture, there is nothing little or ordinary about The Slits.

Cut is pretty radical music.  The band paid a price for it.  Ari Up was stabbed twice!  But they fought on because they believed in what they were doing.  Central to their project was the idea that there should be space in music for every sort of viewpoint.  That meant women should have a voice in rock and punk, forms dominated by men.  In later tours, the band would listen incessantly to Sun Ra‘s Space Is the Place (they even tried to visit him in Philadelphia when on tour, but he happened to be away touring at the same time) and Don Cherry‘s Brown Rice.  They loved Ornette Coleman too.  Albertine liked Yoko Ono as well.  Get the picture?  All these artists shared something in common: a fiercely individualist streak that insisted that society should tolerate a lot more variation than found in its contemporary history.  And they all fought battles to create room for their music.  Ornette was physically assaulted in his early career because people found his music so shocking.  It was the same with The Slits.  Yet they were willing to fight for what they believed in despite these burdens.  They did something to try to change the world.  And didn’t they, in a little way?

The Slits were formed in 1976, when Ari Up was a mere 14 years old.  Kate Korus was their original guitarist, but the Australian-born Viv Albertine took over on guitar early on.  Albertine was already a fixture of the London punk scene, but had only a few months playing guitar before joining the band.  She was available to play after being kicked out of The Flowers of Romance.  Palmolive (born Paloma Romero) was their original drummer, but Albertine forced her out just before the band signed to Island Records to make Cut.  One of Palmolive’s songs, and others with at least her lyrics, makes the album.  She insisted that her close friend Tessa Pollitt sing her “Adventures Close to Home,” rather than Ari.  They temporarily brought in drummer Budgie (born Peter Clarke) for the album and limited touring.  He was under specific instruction to play a little like Palmolive, pounding toms and riding the hi-hat without ever doing big cymbal crashes.

Of the core original band members, only one was born in England, and two (including the singer Ari) spoke English as a second language.  These were kids born after WWII, and most of the bandmembers came from families of divorce, raised by single mothers.  In her memoir Clothes Clothes Clothes Music Music Music Boys Boys Boys, Viv Albertine said about the punks:

“we’re the children of the first wave of divorced parents from the 1950s, we’ve seen the domestic dream break down. It was impossible to live up to. We grew up during the ‘peace and love’ of the 1960s, only to discover that there are wars everywhere and love and romance is a con.”

This puts The Slits’ feminism — more on that in a moment — in a certain light.  The punks were often disillusioned with society.  But coming from families of divorce can give children what scientists called “stress inoculation-induced resilience.”  Anyway, whether it is that or not, these girls chucked out the expectations of what was considered “normal” or “proper” and undertook the difficult task of forging their own meaning.  Like the other punks, they adopted a uniquely urban approach to music, with scratchy, industrial guitar sounds, and electrified instruments.  Unlike the hippies of the prior decade, they struck a more impertinent, shocking pose.  Hunter S. Thompson wrote about “the grim meat-hook realities that were lying in wait” for anyone who took Dr. Timothy Leary’s “turn on, tune in, drop out” consciousness expansion ideals too seriously back in the 60s.  The punks saw those meat-hook realities and confronted them, like a counter-counter-offensive.

The Slits circulated with most of the original wave of London punk bands.  “So Tough” was written about Sid Vicious, and “Instant Hit” about Keith Levene.  Viscous was in the band The Flowers of Romance with Albertine before joining The Sex Pistols.  Levene, later of PiL, was a longtime friend of Albertine’s and helped her learn to play her guitar.  “Ping Pong Affair” was written by Albertine about her on again, off again romantic relationship with Mick Jones of The Clash.  The few songs about the UK punk scene are just part of the story though.

Ari Up was the band’s frontwoman, but she was simply too young to run a band.  It was Viv Albertine who organized things and made the band function.  Ari is still a real presence.  She was heavily into dub and reggae.  The whole band was too, but her even more than the others.  She brought that to the band’s sound in time for Cut — dub and reggae have no bearing on their 1977 session for radio DJ John Peel released as a 1987 EP.  It helps that reggae producer and musician Dennis Bovell produces Cut.  He draws out the best in the band, and perfectly captures their musical vision (he also plays “percussion” with a box of matches, a spoon and a glass on one song, “Newtown”).  Ari sings in a way that swings wildly between styles and registers.  She hisses and screams.  She also had an inimitably sarcastic German drawl that seems incompatible on a basic level with anything stuffy and pretentious (a quality somewhat like Marc Bolan of T. Rex or Bryan Ferry of Roxy Music but even more flamboyant).  Though despite her biting sarcasm she largely avoids the seething rage and harshness of tone of most other (male) punk vocalists.  She sings high trills, then chants in lower registers — something vaguely similar was common in black gospel music, but not in punk rock, or any other kind of rock.  She came across as completely uninhibited.  Her unsettling accent and fearless, childlike attitude are a big part of why The Slits’ irreverent humor works so well.

“Typical Girls” was a single, and a great one (paired with a cover of “Heard It Through the Grapevine” not included on Cut).  Albertine wrote the song for the album just prior to recording.  She got the idea and the title from a sociology book of the same name.  It is laced with feminist concepts.  No doubt, The Slits had a militant feminist stance.  The album cover with them half naked covered in mud (they wanted to recreate an African tribal look, and appear like warriors) is often cited as an anti-feminist stunt, but it only takes a listen to the contents of the album to see that they were indeed feminists.  They weren’t perfect, and their strange, spastic musical vision won’t be everyone’s idea of what they would be listening to in a better world.  But the point was that their music expanded the possibilities, for women in rock and everyone else.  And this was definitely a new configuration of sounds: groovy and oddly catchy while also unpredictable, edgy and discordant.  The song opens with Pollitt laying a thick bass groove and Albertine strumming out sort of a superhero cartoon or spy movie melody, and Ari chants lines like, “Don’t rebel.”  There is a break in the guitar part, and a piano figure pounds out a consonant rising and falling melody.  Then there is a sharp break in rhythm, with the guitar playing Jamaican ska upbeats and a new bass line.  The song manages to convey shifts in perspectives from lolling about in sarcasm to uplifting rising progressions that almost seem to earnestly look at the “typical girl” as having a valid existence too.  The song continues to shift around, never settling down.

The framework of the song “Typical Girls” fits somewhat with the work of the French sociologist Pierre Bourdieu, who published his monumental book La distinction the same year Cut was released.  Bourdieu elaborated on his concept of “habitus”, as a set of unconscious predispositions and social orientations that foster the reproduction of social hierarchies across generations.  The Slits’ song asks “who invented the typical girl?”  But this mocking rhetorical question is answered, partially, with the lyric, “Typical girl gets the typical boy.”  Typical girls and typical boys go together, as if neither one exists or has meaning apart from the context of the pairing.  The song portrays the dispositions of the “typical girl” (or typical boy) accumulated over a lifetime, not consciously, exactly, that just seems to go on, uncritically reproducing more typical girls (and boys).  The Slits stood for snipping the Gordian knot of these dispositions.  The song’s abrupt transitions and odd juxtapositions make it difficult to ignore them.  And once they are recognized, it becomes had to justify them as anything more than arbitrary limitations.

“Spend, Spend, Spend” was written about a lottery winner Viv Nicholson (the song title cribbed from newspaper quotes and headlines about the winner).  But it engages consumerist culture on a direct, personal level too.  The song is partially a confession of addiction to consumer fetishism.  The song doesn’t claim the band stands apart.  Singing about it, though, is an effort to get past it.  “Shoplifting” is the flip side to consumerism.  The song accepts that material things are needed, but the guilt of want is simply discarded.

Palmolive’s “Adventures Close to Home” closes the album.  The words are great: “Don’t take it personal, I choose my own fate / I follow love, I follow hate.”  This encapsulates The Slits’ politics quite well.  Yet with Tessa singing and Ari Up playing bass, and without Palmolive to unselfconsciously bang on the drums, the performances don’t have an optimal touch.  Palmolive’s recording of the song with her next band The Raincoats is superior.  But, Palmolive insisted that Tessa sing as a condition for the group to record her song.

For all the edgy, odd, confrontational sounds on Cut, the music also has a softer side woven throughout.  The band was listening to Dionne Warwick‘s Dionne Warwick’s Golden Hits – Part One incessantly around the time of the recording sessions, in addition to things like David Bowie‘s Low.  Smooth pop soul phrasing is present in this music nearly as much as atonal noise, funk and reggae beats, and sudden shifts in rhythm and tone.

There were a handful of other UK punk bands that incorporated elements of reggae and dub and funk into their sound.  Few did so as brashly as The Slits while still keeping a bright sense of humor.  Even more than three decades later this music sounds fresh and original.

Also, here’s a link to an excellent review of the album by Anthony Carew.

The Slits – Return of The Giant Slits

Return of The Giant Slits

The SlitsReturn of The Giant Slits CBS 85269 (1981)


This album — blending African, Asian and other types of folk music into 1980s pop and dub — sounds a bit contrived.  It pales in comparison to the group’s debut and extant radio recording sessions for their original existence.  However, you have to give The Slits credit for being more ambitious than Siouxsie and the Banshees (the closest comparison), Talking Heads, Lizzy Mercier Descloux and a lot of other artists who headed in the same direction in the early 80s, by bringing a larger number of types of folk music into play and combining them in stranger ways.  Still, I don’t think many of these experiments were entirely successful, for The Slits or anyone else except PiL on The Flowers of Romance (not coincidentally, also the name of a band that feed into The Slits), and more often than not these types of albums tend to bore quite quickly.  And yet, this way of looking at the album is also completely wrong.  The band wasn’t really making punk music any longer.  This doesn’t start with punk and add in other flavors.  It starts with world fusion free jazz stuff.  The band was listening to Ornette Coleman‘s Dancing In Your Head and Don Cherry‘s Brown Rice (they toured with Cherry too), plus Sun Ra, and they were also working with the likes of Steve Beresford and Gareth Sager who had interests in experimental music and free jazz.  Those reference points put this album in a whole new light.  If you expect a continuation of the punk/dub hybrid of Cut then this will be a disappointment.  But if you accept that it comes from a very different place — guitarist Viv Albertine described Dancing In Your Head as annoying in a good way — then this won’t make any sense.  This remains somewhat mediocre compared to some of those influences, but it does make more sense with those precedents in mind.

A few notes too about the album and its origins.  The cover is an artist’s rendering of The Slits from a photo taken on tour in Death Valley California (the volcano in the background is a liberal modification of the Death Valley landscape), plus another vacation photo of them in the ocean in the background (possibly the photo originally intended for use as the cover to Cut).  They recorded this album and then shopped it around before CBS agreed to release it.  The record label misprinted the sleeve to say “Giant Return of The Slits” rather than “Return of The Giant Slits” and the band had to fight to get it corrected.  This was actually the band’s third album.  Their second, an untitled release of demos and live recordings on Y Records, tends to be overlooked and is rather had to find — some people forget it existed and mistakenly call Return of the Giant Slits the follow-up to Cut.

The Rolling Stones – Sticky Fingers

Sticky Fingers

The Rolling StonesSticky Fingers Rolling Stones Records COC 59100 (1971)


I always find it annoying that people never recognize how weak the middle of this album is.  The strained guitar solo on “Can’t You Hear Me Knocking” and the pathetic attempts at delta blues on “You Gotta Move” and “I Got the Blues” (which pale compared to the Stones’ stuff back around ’65) come to mind.  Still, the two ends more than make up for that. Apart from the hits, be sure to take in Paul Buckmaster‘s arrangements that brilliantly complete the last bit of the record. Not to mention that “Dead Flowers” is probably the most romantic, the most pained, the most hopeful, the most dedicated, the most sincere, the most beautiful country song ever written.  What keeps the album so very good is the general weariness which precludes the easy ways out, keeping the Stones attentive, more or less.  They are sensitive and without comfort.  Restless as if there is no rest for them, at least not the kind of rest that would satisfy them. The high points on this eclectic disc are about as high as the Stones got.

T.REX – The Slider

The Slider

T.REXThe Slider T.Rex Wax Records BLN 5001 (1972)


The Slider is an album best understood in terms of both its contrasting and consonant elements.  Marc Bolan’s almost feminine falsetto vocals and vulnerable, confessional lyrics that make the ordinary seem almost profound are set against choogling glam rock guitar riffs and big, beaty drumming.  Some of the guitar is processed to sound almost like a horn section (“Rock On,” “Metal Guru” — or are those really horns?).  Occasionally there are slicing guitar solos, picked out on a string or two with some tremolo and wah pedal, that are played in a style incongruous with the rest of the chorded riffs.  The bass noodles around much more than the lead guitar (especially on “Mystic Lady”), rumbling along in a totally different register.  These contrasts sit in odd comfort with one another.  They are contrasts that nonetheless work together as building blocks of different materials.  They seem like necessary elements of something much more than monochromatic bombast.  But the real secret behind of The Slider is found in producer Tony Visconti‘s string arrangements.

In the 1960s, string arrangements in rock recordings were an odd thing.  Often they were used for crossover appeal, drawing something from pre-rock mainstream pop and showtunes that was applied to entirely different rock songs to add ornate embellishment.  Record labels frequently drafted arrangers from the pop world, or even the folk world, and had them apply their treatments to the work of artists they seemed entirely unfamiliar with.  There are scores of albums like this, with the arrangers simply working from a script that bears no relation to what the featured performers are up to.  Sometimes it works, even spectacularly (Sam Cooke‘s “A Change is Gonna Come,” Nico‘s Chelsea Girl), other times it is pretty hit or miss (Nina Simone on Philips, Judy CollinsIn My Life).  The best of these tended to be when arrangers took a chance on tailoring the arrangements to the performer’s quirks.  Still, the more successful forays tended to involve music that wasn’t really hard rock, but rather smooth soul, urban folk, teen pop…seemingly always music without an audacious electric guitar at the forefront.  A breakthrough, perhaps, was when Paul Buckmaster worked with The Rolling Stones, doing arrangements for songs like “Sway” and “Moonlight Mile” from Sticky Fingers.  That was something different.  Those were string arrangements that lent a dramatic, anthemic, even cinematic sheen in support of harder, darker rock music.  Maybe the electric guitars weren’t up front on “Moonlight Mile” as they were on “Sway,” but Mick Jagger was still on the verge of screaming.  Visconti applies this to many of the songs on The Slider.  It is a stroke of genius.  What normally would be a contrast with the groovy glam guitar riffs ends up being perfectly complementary support.  There are other contrasts, but the strings simply extend the guitar, like the wingspan of a mighty, mythical bird that reach out from its body with majestic grace.  There are no doubts, not for a second, that everything here is in support of rock music and everything it stands for.

In hindsight, it is easy to see T. Rex as a bridge between the 1950s rock ‘n roll explosion, 60s hippie counterculture and the rawness of late 1970s punk.  This was music still interested in trying to change the world, holding open the possibilities that 60s idealism fostered while adding a more gender-conscious perspective and a simpler, more minimalistic kind of guitar playing.

The songs here are frequently quite good.  Really, really good, that is.  The title track is up there with T. Rex’s very best, a melancholy tune steeped with dreamy longing and declarations that straddle self-reflection and provocation.  “Rock On” and “Telegram Sam” really drive home the nearly boogie-rock grooves the hardest.  “Baby Boomerang” is an update of the rock staple “Hound Dog.”  “Spaceball Ricochet” has acoustic guitar and a singer-songwriter vibe.  “Metal Guru” ties the uptempo and the mellow in one package.  Even the songs on the second side that might seem like filler are really quite competent and worthwhile.  This is music with a flair for theatrics and drama.  But, hey, it never second-guesses its own intentions in using those devices.  It gives the mundane the same treatment as the profound, making the ordinary seem profound.  The Slider is also good-natured to its very core.  Large swaths of it have a tongue planted firmly in cheek.  There are few rock albums of the early 70s as likable and durable as this one.

Big Star – Radio City

Radio City

Big StarRadio City Ardent ADS-1501 (1974)


Going full-throttle, Big Star surpassed their debut with this set of charming little rockers. At times, their power pop approaches the audacity of glam rock. A haggard earthiness keeps Big Star from the heavy pretensions though. Haphazard arrangements and gritty performances do make it constantly thrilling.

Big Star was one of commercial music’s biggest mistakes of the 70s. A mistake because virtually no one took notice of the great music they produced from a tiny subsidiary of Stax Records in Memphis.  They seem an unlikely group to have affiliations with legendary soul label Stax, but Memphis always has been the most eclectic musical center in the world.

At the center of it all was former Box Top Alex Chilton. His vocals with The Box Tops always involved grand, gravelly histrionics but there wasn’t always substance. Co-leader Chris Bell departed Big Star, co-writing some of the tracks here but relinquishing credit on the final product. Chilton steps up. He leads the band forward. Cool posturing takes a back seat to honesty. The rich harmonies and hopeful attitude of their debut album take a back seat to subtly darker themes. Good-natured pop remains in the drivers seat.

Rather than overpowering the simple tunes with precise arrangements and tight harmonies, the band focuses on their true strengths. They can really rock. Manipulating things in the studio, everything sounds perfect on the record. Radio City sounds personal — a kind of work that pleases its makers first and listeners second. Fame wouldn’t have made Big Star any better. It could only have torn apart their world.

“September Gurls” was posthumously one of the biggest songs ever to hit college radio. Radio City goes much deeper. “Back of A Car” is easily an equal of “September Gurls” with its rich harmonies and sweet hooks. “O My Soul” rocks pretty hard (not to be confused with Little Richard’s “Ooh! My Soul,” as Chilton often named his songs something familiar).

This record isn’t profound for sounding fresh. Radio City sounds more like a record you already love, something great you just can’t put your finger on. Big Star at their best just let it all hang out. No gimmicks. They made good music you shouldn’t be afraid to like.

Funkadelic – Maggot Brain

Maggot Brain

FunkadelicMaggot Brain Westbound WB 2007 (1971)


Maggot Brain is Funkadelic’s most brilliantly executed album. It is a grab bag of styles, each skillfully employed for the desired effect. There is psychedelic balladry (“Maggot Brain”), trippy soul (“Hit It And Quit It”), folky gospel (“Can You Get To That”), dark blues-rock (“You and Your Folks, Me and My Folks”), heavy metal (“Super Stupid”), zany pop (“Back In Our Minds”), and sound collage (“Wars of Armageddon”). Eclectic to say the least, Maggot Brain is one of rock’s most durable recordings.

When Maggot Brain came out, “Funkadelic” and “Parliament” were conceptually different. Both were the brainchildren of George Clinton, and the exact same group of musicians played in both. The two heads of the beast seemed to each have a mind of their own. “Funkadelic” was the rock band while “Parliament” was the funk band. Over time the distinction lost all meaning (the names actually used gets quite confusing), especially after Bootsy Collins later joined.

This is an Eddie Hazel album. Even on great P-Funk albums, the glue sometimes came apart.  Though “Wars of Armageddon” tests the limits, Maggot Brain stays together. George Clinton was the ringleader, but Hazel is the “glue” that sticks here. The title track features one of the great psychedelic rock solos of the Vietnam war era. Hazel’s aching and languishing feeling on that song is diametrically opposed to Jimi Hendrix‘s fiery style, though in general Hendrix comparisons are in order.

The drumming from Ramon “Tiki” Fulwood is another highlight. While forceful and snappy, his drumming is simple. However, the percussion is ingrained in the music, right in step with the solos from Hazel and the amazing keyboardist Bernie Worrell. The echo effects on “You and Your Folks, Me and My Folks” bring back a trick from old sides by blues shouters like Big Maybelle. The rough feel gives give this record’s constant inventiveness some firm roots.

“Can You Get to That” returns to the very ancient concepts of love and equality. This crew believes in those things even if they aren’t commonly witnessed. Funkadelic handles this song is such a way that these ideals never seem futile.

Maggot Brain has empowerment on Funkadelic’s agenda. It’s not happy Sixties soul. The record points out some of the biggest mistakes society has brought upon itself. Yet, Funkadelic seem immune. They have the inside track laid out inside their social commentary, and are willing to share it.