Posted on 10/04/2005

 

The album cover begs for derision: the mohawk, the head holding grimace, the clichéd sarcastic title make it hard not to wish, maybe, that Slug would get over himself already. You Can't Imagine How Much Fun We're Having boasts all the typical Atmosphere tropes like self-hatred, conflicted relationships with women, and a twisted love for the vagabond lifestyle. But Ant's beautiful production and lyrics from Slug that actually peek from his solipsistic cage make this a special album.

Ant travels from style to style on his albums; though this might make us wistful for dub-inflected tracks like the classic "Free or Dead", it also makes room for the revelation of the gospel influenced gems on You Can't Imagine. Ant's experiment anchors the album with a soul that underlines Slug's concepts no matter what direction they might take. The music of "Say Hey There" wraps around Slug's voice, with plinking piano keys set against a trembling organ with a mournful woman's voice on the hook; even as we're witnessing the wreckage of another one of our MC's relationships, we swallow with empathy rather than scorn a line like "you remind of me/(it's not a compliment)". The formless vocal swells on "Pour Me Another" may remind you of Kanye, but instead of glossing over a track of slick soul the track chronicles life dribbling out of a shot glass one drip at a time. On "That Night", the spiritual center of the album, the wailing on the chorus combines with a drumbeat that marches inexorably onward, almost achingly beautiful in light of Slug describing the heartache resulting from a young fan's tragic death. On a track that has Slug contemplating all the terrible ramifications, from the grief of the victim's family and friends to the shock his own tour mates feel, he ends with the killer, pondering their possible salvation but grimly angry as he allows, "if you ever find God you better pray to her and ask that we never cross paths".

Even fresher is the ability to take an external eye to his own fractious relationships, like on "Little Man" where he examines the father/son relationship from practically every angle and participant involved, and maybe finds that step out of the endless self-deprecation; though like life, none of the songs here would wrap things up that simply. Thoughtful ambivalence, in the sense on pondering all sides of issues, inflects the tracks on the album. Most times Slug's lyrics express these dynamics, with lines that cut against himself as much as against other people, but there are also clever musical snippets from Ant like the found sounds at the end of "Panic Attack", which expose the hypocritical American stance toward drug use in a country where everyone pops pills to wake up, sleep, get happy, or chill their children.

The album would grow wearisome if every track pondered such deep thoughts, so thankfully there's Slug's version of battle raps on tracks like "Watch Out" where Slug tells sucka MCs whose label "must have needed write-offs" to check for him on "the A's of your iPod". The boom bap continues on the appropriately named "Bam" where Slug builds a "home out of syllables" and builds tempo until the track ends in a crescendo of scratches. "Get Fly" rides a jaunty piano out of the dank corners of the album, breaking the tension that comes from walking around with a permanent madface.

You Can't Imagine maintains a feeling of expansion—from the breadth of its emotions to its locations, whether they be on the floor of a bar or somewhere, anywhere, in this far flung and complicated country of ours as chronicled in the never-ending tour of "Angelface". They may start from Minnesota, and Atmosphere might get pigeonholed in some bad genre game of being "emo-rap", but when Slug talks about being "rooted between the computer games and cartoons, stop and watch us all get lost between God and a shot of scotch/Let's get fly!", while backed by a gospel chorus, there's a truth and a shared sense of existence that some folks blinded by the light of their bling can't always see.

No need to resort to such generic polarities though, because You Can't Imagine won't. The album doesn't give a fuck about complaining about mainstream rap (outside of an amusingly crotchety comment on the overblown bass systems in some people's whips), it just represents its own sliver of the universe. Ant provides gorgeous production, and also fills in little snacks in between, sampling everything from Cheers' Cliff Clavin to the Geto Boys "Fuck 'em All" who both manage to name check Atmosphere, in their own hilarious way.

Atmosphere has come a long ways from doing dubious things to cattle, and while I'm not sure I'd want my sister dating the guy, I can think of few people I'd rather chat with while knocking a shot back than the man named Slug.