Pitchfork

I actually frightened friends of mine when I declared that I was looking forward to the new Red Hot Chili Peppers record. Dan simply replied sardonically, "Dooooode." BloodSugarSexMagik was the first CD I ever purchased. Listening to a CD on headphones after a decade of cassettes was revelatory. Faint, echoing harmonies, popping bass, and crisp, finger- lickin' guitar swirled in my ears. (In retrospect, I guess technology had a lot to do with my infatuation with the album.) Now, Californication sees the same players (John Frusciante and Rick Rubin included) from the that album return. As expected, it's considerably better than the bone- stupid One Hot Minute, but not quite as funky- assed as their acclaimed 1991 effort.

But wait. Before we go any further, let's talk about Dave Navarro. Dave Navarro was a horrible fit for the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Thankfully, he's off in some private velvet- paneled studio pouring hot wax on his nipples and applying mascara. Look up "wannabe rockstar" in the dictionary and you'll find a picture of Dave Navarro's pierced nipples and school- of- Depeche Mode black nail polish. So, weighing in at a stunning 85 pounds, the band's former guitarist John Frusciante and his quavering, pasty, skeletal body rejoined for the Californication sessions.

In his off time from the Chili Peppers, John Frusciante recorded a couple of drug- induced solo mishaps and had a best- selling Italian novel named after him. The man brings a rucksack of real emotions with his guitar. I'll also wager my credibility that he's the best big- time American rock guitarist going right now. His fingers can effortlessly switch from the pickin' funk of "I Like Dirt" to the sculpted feedback of "Emit Remmus" to the tender, lovely (yes, really, a tender, lovely Chili Peppers track) "Porcelain" to the clever, stadium- sized solos throughout. But best of all, he makes you forget about that crazy monkey on bass.

Eh, but let's face it, the biggest obstacle in your enjoyment of a Red Hot Chili Peppers album is horny crooner, Anthony Kiedis. If you can stomach lines like "Go-rilla cunt-illa/ Sammy D and Salmonella," "Up to my ass in alligators/ Let's get it on with the alligator haters," and "To fingerpaint is not a sin/ I put my middle finger in," you're good to go. If those lines make you wince like Pitchfork Editor Ryan Schreiber, keep in mind that I pulled those from only two of fifteen songs.

In a way, you have to be familiar with California to appreciate Kiedis' lyrics. I mean, Los Angeles is shallow, sunny, fun, and tragic. So, in this age of unfathomably horrible choruses like, "I did it all for the nookie/ The nookie/ So you can take your cookie...," "Because you did my homies," and "Bawitdaba" (a five- spot to anyone who can explain that one), we can cut the Chili Peppers some slack. Plus, the sincere, hook- laden, mellow jams of "Scar Tissue," "Otherside," and "Road Trippin'" more than make up for whatever knuckle- dragging Kiedis executes. That the Chili Peppers even gave us a single you can actually tolerate on the radio should be heralded.

Longevity in rock music is about as rare as hip-hop spellcheckers these days. The idea of albums has given way to the force- feeding of singles. Teens reposter their walls with the face- of- the- moment more frequently than undercover advertisers placard boarded- up fences and buildings in New York. Basicially, the Chili Peppers are the closest thing we have to a Led Zepplin today. If you want quality, commercial, Jeep- stereo, headphone, stadium- filling, champion Rock that you can get behind, where else are you going to turn? Not to Eminem, you ain't.