Welcome to Langhoff Unpublished, a sad series of unpublished record reviews that's sure to grow longer and longer until hope is gone. This one I sent to Chuck Eddy at the Village Voice some months after he listed the album in his "Eddytor's Dozen" column, thus some months after its release, which usually isn't an issue there, though maybe it's more of an issue when the review is as dorky as this thing. I had a heck of a time figuring out which Beatnut was which, and I'm still not sure I've got it right. Fun record, though.
I don’t know about you, but when I see a milk-soaked woman wearing a bikini on an album cover, I expect message rap. Blame my unreasonable expectations on a childhood diet of trenchant P-Funk and Ohio Players sleeves, but these “Beat Nuts” seem nothing more than what their name implies. I suppose “Confused Rappers” taught me more industry lessons than any song since Tribe’s “The Business” (now THERE were some social commentators par excellence), and if pressed, I’ll admit the double time march “We Don’t Give a Funk” flipped my helplessly crunk body off the walls with its motherfunking mad synthesized stabs and Mr. Juju’s promises to, “all jokes aside,” piss on my head. He really made the prospect sound appealing. As did (if I must) the completely banging “Find Us (In the Back of the Club),” during which hands were clapped, and all the over-the-top celebrity name-checking in “Buggin,’” (“You need to do like Kanye and fix your face” addresses that outstanding young man’s real-life torment), and… Well, I guess the first half is a funky fly dance party masterpiece. For safety’s sake, I’m currently listening to the second half and still having trouble remembering what it sounds like. Now that’s what I call message rap!