On the wide spectrum of rap–from the bubblegum of Vanilla Ice and M.C. Hammer to the bleak, unfriendly visions of the Geto Boys and N.W.A.–L.L. Cool J has staked himself out a comfortable spot right in the middle. Safely street but just as safely unpolitical, musically diverse but never outre, he trades on an easy, almost facile pop sensibility that has captured the fascination of millions of kids, but dresses it in a disappointingly mundane lyrical ability. He originally shared a producer and label with Run-D.M.C.; certainly a star in his own right now, L.L. will nevertheless always toil in their shadow.
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But it was young James Todd Smith (whose raponymic stands for “Ladies Love Cool James”) who took the pop mantle from the kids from Hollis. He created his first rap song, “I Need a Beat,” at the age of 16–after, legend has it, his grandfather refused to buy him a dirt bike and got him a keyboard instead. Producer Rick Rubin and Def Jam, the record company built on the back of Run-D.M.C., grabbed little L.L. and signed him up. His first hit was “I Can’t Live Without My Radio,” a hopped-up but otherwise rather unprepossessing ode to the boom box. His first album, Radio, and the follow-up, Bigger and Deffer, showed off his developing vocal skills and produced probably the first genuine rap ballad hit, “I Need Love.” L.L.’s third record, Walking With a Panther, featured the savagely funny “I’m That Type of Guy,” an only-half-joking sex boast. His newest record is the extravagant Mama Said Knock You Out, with its over-the-top landmark title single. The song has gained him new critical credibility, and the status of MTV darling: recent appearances, both in an acoustic (!) performance on MTV Unplugged and with a huge band (!) on the channel’s video awards show, have only increased his standing.
What L.L. Cool J has got going for him, primarily, are his voice and his sense of humor. He can whisper, croon, yell, holler, or scream; be sexy or wimpy; talk tough or reasonable or deliver a devastating snicker–all over the course of a single song, and all with utter conviction. His sense of humor is unreliable but ever present. “Mama Said Knock You Out” shows off both strengths perfectly: a by-the-book masterpiece of rap braggadocio, it undercuts itself with an uncharacteristically deep subtext nicely encapsulated in the title. (At the end of the terrific video, lion-in-the-ring L.L. gets a TKO from grandma.) “I’m That Type of Guy” is another great performance; it’s filled with lines like:
You’re the type of guy try to call me a punk
L.L. appears to understand the problem and to want to find some way to translate this forceful music to the stage. He’s to be credited with worrying about it at all, but his show demonstrates that he’s barking up the wrong tree. The ensemble was unwieldy to say the least: two drummers, two keyboardists, four horns, two guitars, two basses, four dancers, and L.L. and his scratcher, Cut Creator, crowded themselves onto Mandel Hall’s proscenium. Problems? You bet. First off, the ensemble wasn’t exactly the Famous Flames, if you get my drift. Second, whether they were just bored, unhappy, or undisciplined, the aggregation never seemed to be having any fun: there wasn’t a single moment of blasting, in-your-face excitement. And third, after about two numbers you realized that that studio insularity is exactly what gives rap songs their potency.
In Mama Said L.L. Cool J has put out the best pop-rap song cycle since King of Rock; he, rather than the likes of Hammer or Marky Mark, should be the inheritor of Run-D.M.C.’s massive crossover success. But he’s too callow, too out of touch; he can’t even get his rap act in order before he’s off back on the road with some huge band that can barely hold a stage. His shows have all the class of a pro-wrestling subregional championship, or a fundamentalist’s chautauqua whistle-stop. There’s some energy, sure, and it’ll make you a living. But this is definitely not the future of rap.
