Pitchfork

Does there exist a substratum of the musical elite more hermetic than hip-hop's own brand of nomad, the cratedigger? Equal parts obsessive, archivist, collector and artist, the cratedigger's life-consuming quest for the perfect breakbeat(s) magically transforms one's local Yellow Pages into a record collector's Holy Grail; while an individual's basement can be a vinyl-addict's utopia where time-forgotten funk manna patiently awaits discovery. The collectors are notoriously obsessive, eternally flipping through abandoned boxes to locate (and mine the fuck out of) that one brilliant twelve-second clip. And then there are folks like those mad Los Angelino B-boys behind Stones Throw Records-- namely Peanut Butter Wolf, Madlib, and Egon-- for whom sampling isn't enough: these guys actually go to the trouble of remastering and releasing these out-of-print obscurities on compact disc in what could only be described as a deranged act of beat-crazed taboo.

Stones Throw has been opening hip-hop listeners' blunt-addled minds for some time now; stretching the conceptions of "digging" culture seems only a natural progression for the marquee label. Any single track off of 2001's archivist funk odyssey, The Funky 16 Corners, could be considered a proverbial wet-dream for DJs far and wide. And last year's reissue of Stark Reality's Now, through its solid selection of proto-funk grooves, not only exposed the blueprint for Madlib's trademark love affair with the vibes, but also saved plenty of sample-hungry tastemakers from shelling out hundreds on eBay for the über-rare vinyl original.

The strongest of these inspired reissues yet, however, is the unabashedly multi-racial, Omaha-bred mutt-funk troupe The L.A. Carnival's early 70s release, Pose a Question. That the band's frontman, drummer and chief songwriter Lester Abrams is not a legendary icon of American funk is probably due somewhat to locale: raised in the racially segregated Omaha of the 60s with roots in both Native and Black American cultures, Abrams' music is imbued with a distinctly American conflation of funk, jazz and soul that drops overtly political overtones atop feverish, percussion-heavy grooves. Abrams' incendiary drum lines steal the show on almost every number; cymbals swing effortlessly as barrages of snare hits frenetically pop like ricocheting pinballs.

What comes to identify Pose a Question, though, is Abrams' method of channeling his multi-ethnic American heritage through the genre-defying exuberance of his tunes. By having such movement within each number and throughout the sequence of the entire record ("Blind Man" is straight Motown Soul, while "Ron's Tune" is a bossa-funk chill-out), The L.A. Carnival flaunt their diversity; the ultimate act of aesthetic revolt in the face of a black-and-white America clinging to its ideological labels and racial stereotypes. On the album's opener, "Flyin'", Ron Cooley's wiry guitar licks melt over a steady laconic funk bop, while Rick Chudacoff's electric bass notes pounce on the off beats before the chorus breaks in with the calming soul twinkle of a Rhodes piano motif. While on the album's showstopper, "7 Step to Nowhere", rolling percussion and jerky guitar chords hold the awkward 7/4 time signature together, only for the inherent calm of a lone jazz sax solo to cool-out the bridge section.

While the arrangements on Pose a Question should undoubtedly break smiles across DJs' faces and get funk fanatics' heads' nodding, the lyrical content of most of these numbers sounds irrepressibly derivative of 60s idealism. In an age where even irony is coming under the gun, it's hard to take a song titled "We Need Peace and Love" seriously-- particularly when those are the number's only lyrics. Furthermore, the album's title track, with lyrics about the black "brotha man," and laughably simplistic questions like, "Can we all live together one by one," seem rather banal when heard in today's context. Of course, you can't fault a record for sounding like a product of its time (even if you can champion one that was ahead of it), and The L.A. Carnival's sweet-as-can-be, three-part vocal harmonies (courtesy of Leslie Smith, Arno Lucas and Abrams) generally help the revolution go down easy for even the most jaded listener.