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(Epitaph/Shock)
Bodily fluids stain this album. Hormone-rich sweat, for one, the desperate sweat of a Limp Bizkit moshpit. Snot, for another, the obnoxious watered-down snot Good Charlotte downloaded from the Sex Pistols. Sperm, caked onto a centrefold. Bile, choked down as you take out the trash. A little blood maybe, from hauling their own gear and driving their own van. Seven’s Travels, album number four for underground hip-hop trio Atmosphere, is billed as their breakthrough, and as such it is licensed to punk label Epitaph for wide release. It’s obvious where Atmosphere intersect the punk/emo culture, with their disaffected male puberty blues, binge-drinking bravado and slacker confessionals of sitting “with my hand down the front of my pants.” MC Slug’s rebel yelp owes more to the Who than NWA, despite name-checking 100 miles and running.
Along with Fred Durst’s misogynist underdog rancour, delivered sometimes in an Eminem klaxon of rising hysteria, sometimes with a more endearing simplicity, Slug does a good line in apocalyptic menace. He thinks nothing of dropping tubs of bombast like “in the days of kings and queens I was a jester, treat me like a God or treat me like a leper,” and he pulls it off too, with the help of dischordant yet funky backdrops designed by DJ Mr. Dibbs. Indeed, solid beats and sensitive sampling from Ant and Mr. Dibbs respectively could be Atmosphere’s ticket out of pimply ressentiment and into musical credibility. The haunting stand-alone bassline of “In my continental,” the California-dreaming misty-eyed guitar of “Always coming back home to you,” the Ennio Morricone whistle and mouth harp of “National Disgrace,” are proof of mood-building panache and an eclectic reach. Slug’s slightly self-conscious singing also deepens their game, producing singsong hooks that owe something to the Red Hot Chilli Peppers: “elements of purpose, true love from the first kiss, spread it on the surface, sit back and watch the progress.” This is one pasty goth who ain’t gonna be called a bitch, however, as Slug sets out to prove on industrial migraine “Cats Van Bags.” This hoover-assisted battering ram of a song actually manages to sound like Metallica rather than Korn, stirring some primitive survival instinct with the war-cry chorus : “let the rooves [sic] burn, let the girls love, let the heat flow, let the world turn…cats van bags yo!”
It’s an interesting ride, but in the end nifty breaks and atmospheric cuts aren’t enough to carry the snotty lyrics, and the nicest thing I can say about Seven’s Travels is at least it’s not rap-metal. But obviously I’m prejudiced, and if emo is your bag then you could probably do worse for a hip-hop chaser than Atmosphere.
