Pras v. Dangermouse

Wednesday we did a music video for Pras, the last and least talented former member of hiphop trio The Fugees. Once Lauryn Hill went solo in 1998 and blew up Pras was left to languish in obscurity. One almost feels sorry for the guy. But not too sorry--cousin Wyclef Jean calls him the “Milli Vanilli of hiphop” after all. So there.

We’re shooting at the Sepulveda Unitarian Church, which is known as The Onion because it is tall, round, and domey—onionesque almost. The acoustics are wacky and contribute to a murky and unacknowledged feeling of schizophrenia among the crew. I keep hearing male voices behind me when I’m standing alone—then I realize that it’s someone speaking from way across the room. Neat-o. There is a beautiful double helix of white Chinese lanterns spiraling down from the ceiling. There is also a strange backup “band” (do they really play on the record? Hmmm) made up of three Eastern European men in white leisure suits and a young fedora-sporting version of Brigitte Nielsen on the drum kit. She can’t compare with Lenny Kravitz’s afroed, muscly, sunglass-wearing, hotter-than-all-get-out chick drummer—but at least it’s something.

These are the good things. Now for the Other.

We are making a hiphop video and all of the familiar hiphop tropes are in effect. We shoot Pras low and wide-angled so that he can lean over and rap at us, gesturing straight-fingered into the lens. There are over a hundred extras circling the Onion in three different “tiers.” Tier one is 80% female, wearing hiphuggers, navel piercings and big hoop earrings that I want to grab with my hands and pull on, hard. I have never seen so much buttcrack in all my life. Hoochie mamas, thongs, and buttcrack—yes sir. We are making a hiphop video, is any of this a surprise?

“What percentage of these girls don’t have tattoos?” I ask the gaffer.
“Zero.”
“What percentage of these girls don’t have pierced navels?”
“Ten,” he says. He seems pretty confident.

The first run-through of the day is always pivotal in Music Video Land. This is when you listen to the song for the first time and you come to terms with the fact that you’ll be hearing it over a hundred times through by the end of the evening. Pras’ effort seems adequate—not atrocious, but acceptable. Acceptable, boring, and inoffensive—New Millennium Rap exemplified.

Then comes the chorus: “But I still haven’t found what I’m looking for!” Ah, yes. I see how this works. Another stolen hook, this one from U2. Except it isn’t stolen, it’s offered up at a premium and I’m sure Bono and the Edge wouldn’t think of turning down a little cigarette money to dust off their 20-year-old chorus for a fellow label mate. But it’s not like they couldn’t tell Universal to go f*** themselves if they really wanted to—if they actually had any integrity. I still haven’t found what I’m looking for, indeed. It all seems quite incestuous. Like maybe Pras went through the back catalogue of Universal and Island music, looking for good hooks to rap around. Lamentable.This is the music that kids listen to these days.

On the other hand, I’ve been listening to The Gray Album more and more lately. The Gray Album came out over the Internet about a year ago when DJ Dangermouse combined Jay-Z’s “The Black Album” with the Beatles’ “The White Album.” The result is quite good—some of the best hiphop I’ve heard in years (not saying a lot, but still). Yet, why is this acceptable and P-Diddy’s Police ripoff of “Every Breath You Take” not? Why did I hold up Negativland as heroes when they combined a swearing Casey Kasem with the very same “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For” chorus? It is all about the power dynamic, I think. Who’s in control and who stands to make the money. And if the sampling and mash-ups are done in the spirit of creativity or in the spirit of theft. Dangermouse got a cease-and-decist order from EMI. Negativland took on U2 and lost. When Universal sued them they put out a record called “U2,” with a giant “U2” on the cover with “Negativland” printed in an eensy font next to it. They got crushed again, of course.

I am trying to work out a formula but it is difficult. Jay-Z’s “Hard-Knock Life” is worthy, but Gwen Stefani’s “Hollaback Girl” is not. “Intergalactic Eagle,” a mashup between the Beastie Boys’ “Intergalactic” and Steve Miller’s “Fly Like an Eagle” is worthy. Other mashups are not. Particularly egregious is the evil genius fraud Moby—the Enya of “progressive” music—who mined the National Archives in DC for royalty-free public domain recordings of old blues songs. Moby is the Wal-Mart of electronic sampling.

And Pras, well, not only is his music derivative, but so is the image he’s going for. He’s obviously trying to channel the spirit of P-Diddy, doing the jiggly P-Diddy Non-Dance with that affected P-Diddy nonchalance. He wears a long white brace over his lower right arm and wrist. It looks like something either Michael Jackson or bowling champ Earl Anthony might wear. I want so badly to ask Pras if it's a nagging bowling injury. In the end I suspect it is Fashion. The Broken Wrist Aesthetic is making a comeback this season, don’t you know? I have climbed highest mountain.