Hip-hop. Built entirely on bling-blings and bang-bangs. Or so it would sometimes seem. Of course it isn’t entirely, but that doesn’t stop the majority aspect seeping like spilt blood under the toes of those that do still see it as an art-form, rather than a survival-of-the-luckiest lifestyle choice (still sore case in point, Jam Master Jay). But there must be those out there that have evolved past a primal, Neanderthal urge for territorial scrappings, and developed instincts beyond those of a dishevelled, pack-following stray mutt (and that’ll be a dog, not a Dogg). Those that take rhythm, rhyme and hip-hop as an influence but don’t let its stereotypes dictate their lives, because their lives are easily bigger than that. Those that just aren’t exactly the same. Buck 65 – aka Richard Tefry aka Stinkin’ Rich – is a 20-something David Lynch obsessive, MC/DJ/producer, ex-baseball nearly-man (scouted by the New York Yankees) born in small-town Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada and currently calling Paris home. Exactly.
And the clear potential for gloriously skewered individualism, taking into account that brief CV-melee, is realised numerous times over before the hour is out. The album itself has discarded the requirement for titles and logical track breaks, preferring instead to have 4 nameless parts of the ‘Square’ averaging 15 minutes and a handful of tracks each. Each one beating a slightly different emotional path, getting a little darker (or at least more tainted and sticky) the deeper you get. “Sometimes gun crimes blow my mind, lord knows I’ve tried to close my eyes… I never asked to be a fly on the wall” he flows mournfully 12 minutes into track one. Which you’d be right to think makes this far from a party record. You’d also be right to note he’s fallen on the more appealing side of the tracks, the right side to roam free just a little. This album does sound like a man on his feet, sometimes trundling, occasionally running, often pacing, and always moving.
Throw him in the air and he’d be bound to land back on his feet, probably somewhere between Beck, DJ Shadow, Jurassic 5 and Twin Peaks. It’s paranoid, claustrophobic, edgy, confessional, dark, eclectic and inspiring. From sweeping Massive Attack-esque boot-marks, to sombre acoustic guitars, atmospheric backdrops, intense spoken word, murmured rhyming stopping short of singing, break-beats, honestly delivered lyrics and sharp, light-fingered scratching. And you haven’t yet made it out of the first square. You could call him old school, but that wouldn’t be giving true credit to what he’s doing right now, not to say it’s not as pure to the core as that description may suggest. You could take on his skin colour and draw the easy parallels with Eminem and Bubba Sparxxx (he’s not a million miles from either vocally) but that’d kind of be missing the point. Remember back when Moby was exciting? Remember first hearing ‘Entroducing’? Remember first hearing about this album.