Pitchfork

Jabber-- numbing listeners with verbiage important or useless-- can be a weapon. That said, there is also a certain power in veering off into tangents, forcing a listener to follow stories and thoughts as they drift. Regan Farquhar (Busdriver) is an ace at tangents. On "Unemployed Black Astronaut", the MC begins by announcing, "It's the resurgence of the happy black rappers." He then sub-sonically narrates his rise to minor stardom as a rapper before reminding everyone that he is the first black astronaut to land on the moon in a hot-air balloon. Our man then blathers about rewriting Hollywood flicks to not have black men die in their opening scenes, telling of Advanced Dungeons & Dragons players mowing lawns for a living, comparing himself to the best of the Krush Groove DVD, and living off of chicken pot pies as he is a mere tax write-off for his record label. Fear of a Black Tangent, he calls his power.

As heard in his last joint, Cosmic Cleavage, Farquhar continues his persona as a loser who chases his demons on a public bus or in a subway station. He typically sounds like David Allan Grier with amyl nitrate in the air. Our man raps in an "ohmygawd this is sooo ridiculous" tone that can make you either think he is a jackass or a jester. My instincts say it's the latter. Hell, on his self-introduction, "Yawning Zeitgeist Intro (Freestyle)", he says, "Now, some of your friends will reboot and do a Google search and will be discouraged that the truth will hurt when they see that I'm not their zeitgeist, nor am I Christ-like, nor do I dislike whites. I just want a better chance as, most likely, I'll sell more records in France." Amen.

Daedelus, Omid, Nobody, Prefuse 73, and even Danger Mouse leave their fingerprints on the album's loose production, which samples everything from gothic, Aquarius-age organs and Roosevelt-era swing jaunts to Spaghetti Western ballads. Farquhar is a Charlie Brown of sorts, blaming artistic shortcoming on lousy choices ("What kind of name is Busdriver? Is it just a wack allegory? And can't it be justified by any background story?"). He cries that his music only appeals to "hipsters dress like Russian spies." Farquhar's self-loathing comes dangerously close to being wearisome until "Befriend the Friendless Friendster" kicks in, as he sing-raps and tap-dances with Irving Berlin on the gawddamn Ritz. And then there is the closer, "Lefty's Lament", where he retires in an elephant's graveyard of the American left wing. Poor sod.