12.05.2004
r.i.p. o.d.b.
ol' dirty bastard was not merely a clown, but at his best, reached the operatic heights of a wailing little richard, a strutting iggy pop or a marching freddy mercury. i first heard ol' dirty in the wonder-bread, ultra-caucasian environment of art school, 1995. i greeted him with enthusiasm, being eager to plant new words like "dada" and "nihilism" into any awkward contemporary context i could fit them. and on that level, dirty was a boundless treasure of absurdities and accidents. my neurotic white distance from "the world he came from" (on display as much now as it was then) admittedly took the initial guise of patronizing, half-amused laughter-- quieting, inevitably, with the guilty awareness of my own snobbery. but eventually, with my good friend jack playing return to the 36 chambers again and again in the painting studio (with all the accompanying "cred" of jack's far deeper investment in hip hop), i began to think of the record as less of a novelty. i began, essentially, to like it on my own terms. and the early ODB-- of that record, of the first wu tang album, and occasionally thereafter (i'm less impressed than most by ni**a please, but it does have a few goodies...)
was raw and stylish and surprising. and it's that sense of surprise that elevates him above novelty for me. the feeling that anything could happen on his records (or in his life). legibility and illegibility were equally exciting; the accidents as stylish as the on-point deliveries. and he was funny as hell, too. i remember reading an interview in mean magazine in which he was asked, following declaring himself "big baby jesus," what his latest name for himself was...
"nuts," he replied.
...and wasn't ODB a great unraveler of our cultural fabric??? i'll miss the apprehension i've felt following mention of his name; the thrill of guessing his latest adventure, etc. (not that they're all light-hearted and entertaining, but if you're gonna be a voyeur, he had the right stuff). too bad the last of such episodes led me to a record of his death. the final surprise of a great prankster... and a hell of a rapper. a man borne of the same crazed, often accidental spirit that reminds us that when things go wrong they go right, that george w. bush has something taped to his back, that tara reid's boob is in the house (dude, find the link yourself), and who the fuck is shawn colvin anyway????
was raw and stylish and surprising. and it's that sense of surprise that elevates him above novelty for me. the feeling that anything could happen on his records (or in his life). legibility and illegibility were equally exciting; the accidents as stylish as the on-point deliveries. and he was funny as hell, too. i remember reading an interview in mean magazine in which he was asked, following declaring himself "big baby jesus," what his latest name for himself was...
"nuts," he replied.
...and wasn't ODB a great unraveler of our cultural fabric??? i'll miss the apprehension i've felt following mention of his name; the thrill of guessing his latest adventure, etc. (not that they're all light-hearted and entertaining, but if you're gonna be a voyeur, he had the right stuff). too bad the last of such episodes led me to a record of his death. the final surprise of a great prankster... and a hell of a rapper. a man borne of the same crazed, often accidental spirit that reminds us that when things go wrong they go right, that george w. bush has something taped to his back, that tara reid's boob is in the house (dude, find the link yourself), and who the fuck is shawn colvin anyway????
