By Bree Davies
By Emerald O'Brien
By Gina Tron
By Jon Solomon
By Drew Ailes
By Courtney Harrell
By Kyra Scrimgeour
White people long to be funky. They want elasticity: the rubber knees, the fluid flow, the boiling blood, the innate understanding of the rhythms they pine to create. They want the funk; they are willing to give up everything for the funk. But the funk remains buried by centuries of oppressive Caucasianism.
Many foolishly -- though understandably -- try to mimic those who possess the funk, but they end up looking like honky clowns. They turn their hats just so, tie their laces exactly as loosely as our brother over there. They buy black and try their damnedest to nail the handshake, the 'tude, the vibe -- and in the process suck the life out of it all, because a brother doesn't have to work on any of this; it just is, yo. We tryin' too hard, man; as long as we keep doing so, the funk will remain laughably out of reach, and we'll end up like the lone white dude at a Five Points playground pickup game.
You think Eminem had it bad trying to break into rap? At least he shared a common class with his peers. MC Paul Barman's an Ivy League Jew; he sounds like one, and he ain't hiding it. He defiantly, courageously (foolishly? annoyingly?) pounces on rap as his creative outlet, and the results are, for better or worse, unlike any other rap album you'll hear this year: a white dude doing rap, keenly aware of his place in its world.
Paul Barman graduated from Brown University in 1997; soon after, he dropped a debut single with the defiantly unghetto title "Postgraduate Work." Producer Prince Paul, who will always be best known as the producer of De La Soul's Three Feet High and Rising, liked the single and contacted Barman, and they created a follow-up EP, "It's Very Stimulating." It was well-received, probably because of the certainty of Barman's vision. From there, the rapper has gradually worked his way into the upper echelons of the American hip-hop underground. He's got guts, style and an incredibly distinctive voice.
His debut album's just come out, and it's called Paullelujah! You'll either love it or want to hunt MC Paul Barman down and kill him, depending on how open you are to a weird, brilliant hip-hop oddity -- and depending on how rigid your definition of "keepin' it real" is. If you like rap and are interested in exploring a brother from another planet and are compelled by the dalliance between hard-funk production -- some of the best beats of the year, most created by an obscure producer named Mikethemusicguy -- and an annoyingly clever lyricist with a potty mouth, check Paullelujah! It's fun as hell, one of the best nonstop party records since Three Feet High(even though Prince Paul only produced one of the record's thirteen tracks).
On Paullelujah!, Barman sets songs in an anarchist bookstore, at a National Organization for Women rally (where he proceeds to have nasty sex with Genevieve, who "has a whole henna sleeve that says/'Who cares what men achieve?'/Under her arm/America's Wrong, by Erica Jong"), a high school, a Nazi death camp ("Gramps made a damn nice lampshade/They stretched his tanned flesh out like a Band-Aid without the sterile pad/As feral lad, did you feel in peril, Dad?").
In these places, MC Paul Barman lets loose, and when he starts rhyming, you'd better have a napkin handy, because he's going to get spit all over your face. His voice has absolutely no black in it whatsoever. None. He's as white as Jerry Seinfeld. But that doesn't mean he doesn't have confidence; like the runt so outsized on the playground that he just goes fucking nuts on the bully, Barman gets going and hangs on from there. His rhymes tumble down the hill like a slalom skier in the middle of a career-ending crash. But within these brilliant catastrophes are angles and bends and twists and sprains that on first, second, third listen will pass you by, no matter how smart you think you are. At one point Barman even threatens to start rhyming in Morse code.
Of the thirteen tracks on Paullelujah!, only "Old Paul" captures its essence. It takes the form of an imagined autobiographical obituary: "I'm gonna take a lackadaisical ride on my back-in-the-day cycle," he says, overpronouncing every syllable. "Old Paul gave rap a cold call/The Caucasoid had the whole block annoyed/It took big gilded gold balls to smile at terror and trial and error." He then ponders the charge against him of ripping off a culture: "Is it 'cause I go for the laugh?/Because I'm not from the Ave.?/Because I target fans you wish you didn't have?/Had I made a mockery of a culture like the Choco-Taco?/Was I to rap what France was to Morocco?" Then, at the height of Old Paul's imagined career, he stops, retires: "I pressed control-Q in full view of my old crew/Instead of hustling cameos and picking out Grammy clothes, I make stuffed animals while my family grows."