By Jeremy Hallock
By James Khubiar
By Observer Staff
By Kelly Dearmore
By Jim Schutze
By Rachel Watts
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
Apl.De.Ap (wearing fatigues, with Bob Marley dreads), Will.i.am (in Shaft-era leather), and Taboo (rocking the breakdancing sheik look) are capping off this tour--with De La Soul, Talib Kweli, and Wyclef Jean--close to home. Once given the word, the Los Angeles trio hurl themselves into their crazy kaleidoscope of a live show, and it's enough to change the mind of anyone unimpressed by their two albums. Backflipping into hip-hop's glorious block-party past, the group thrive live. Taboo, the show's hyperkinetic centerpiece, is no stage stalker; a dancer at heart, he bobs and locks, pumping the energy sky high, lording his perfectly synchronized moves above the crowd. Will and Apl take turns breakdancing in back, transforming the stage into a Whodini-era breakdown of pinwheel arms and legs.
The Peas grew up in L.A., birthplace of thug rappers N.W.A., but also of narrative-bending compatriots like the Pharcyde, Freestyle Fellowship, and Jurassic 5. Breaking through in 1998 with Behind the Front, the Peas proved themselves to be smart rappers with history poised eloquently on their deft tongues. They helped kick off a movement to bring back rap's early, New York street-centric era of breakdancing and Afrika Bambaataa. In fact, the Peas have been dubbed latter-day West Coast bearers of Bambaataa's Native Tongues torch, placing them in an illustrious line that includes De La, A Tribe Called Quest, and the Jungle Brothers. Like those groups, the Peas marry rap's party-loving side with social consciousness, creating feel-good music that seduces critics and college kids as well as b-boys. Courting popularity with a fluid philosophy--a polymorphic cause for celebration--they avoid hard and fast poses. They might have underground impresario Mos Def guesting on their record, but they're not above touring with No Doubt.
But 2000 was not a great year for the Peas. Even though their new record, Bridging the Gap, is better than Behind the Front--digging into far more subtle and arresting tunes while riffing on the debut's scratch-happy party jams--it has been relatively ignored, especially by hip-hop radio. Ernest Hardy wrote in Rolling Stone that "the album's power increases with repeated listenings," but most critics haven't been nearly as kind.
So now the hard work starts.
"I feel so much more pressure now than when we were making the record," says Will. "Making an album, that ain't nothin'--it's what happens when it comes out."
"Will has no attention span," confides his good friend, Canadian singer Esthero, who met him at the Opium Den in Los Angeles, "but that's because he's an artist in the true sense of the word. He never goes out, he works all the time--that's why he's so nutty. He's created his own universe, and he has to work constantly. When he was touring with No Doubt, he hooked up a U87 mic in the bathroom for me and had me singing vocals in the tub. He's always somehow going to have a makeshift studio--the amount of energy he has is incredible."
Energy is certainly a necessity in the Peas' current situation. They remain poised between radio rap and a thriving underground scene that's trying to bring back KRS-One's philosophical approach, or at least the stripped-down essence of curbside b-boy culture. "That's where we're from--that era when it was fun," says Apl. "We're not really listening to new stuff now, because we can't really relate to it."
"The old school is the only school," Will asserts, "because the school that's 'new school' now isn't even in school. They're not learning anything about music. Our music has the essence of what everyone back in the day was speaking on, as opposed to what they're talking about now--the bling-blings, the tits."
"Hip-hop is in distress," says Taboo. "Now they're trying to turn it into a marketing tool for Burger King. We're the ones--and the Roots, and the De Las--trying to revive the culture."
"The culture is as strong as it's been in a while," Will clarifies. "Right now hip-hop's dope--the business is wack. And the only reason why I don't like the radio is when they don't play us." He's kind of joking, but he's not.