6OGs on OGs: Clipse, Lulu, and Motherf'ers JMB & Co

Given the occupied state of Washington, DC, the city of “taxation [and militarization] without representation” that the 6OGs call home, perhaps we should have made this our Dischord edition to honor the abounds that could fuel the resistance? Or waxed about the new AI-generated Kristin Hersh-inspired band I am working to put together, Throwing Sandwiches? To be clear, the National Guard deployment and other elements of the Trump Administration’s actions here should be offensive to every American, and the idea that the guy throwing a sandwich loses his job and the January 6 rioters who killed and injured people are set free? Well, as OG Brian says below, this is what makes us Old Guys yell at clouds.

For now, we’re going to keep to our traditional structure and carry on with an edition of the OGs wrestling with music by other OGs. Brian works through a tinge of disappointment about the new Clipse record and, as he did a few months back with the Lara Trump record, re-listens to Lou Reed/Metallica’s Lulu so you don’t have to. On the positive side, OG Brad gives a shout-out to a phenomenal local band of music veterans that are, in a word, an experience. Enjoy. And as some other OGs who have a (surprisingly not bad) new record out once sang: Fight the Power.

New Album: Let God Sort Em Out by Clipse. I am officially in my mid-50s. I am the old man who yells at clouds. At no time is this more apparent than when I listen to, or attempt to venture an opinion on, hip hop in 2025.

I was the one who introduced Public Enemy and NWA to my high school crowd (granted, it was a predominantly white, largely Jewish and Italian or Irish Catholic public school on the south shore of Nassau County, but someone had to do it). Was the first in my crowd to discover the Native Tongues groups and realize the Beasties weren’t really the Beasties until Paul’s Boutique. Saw enough hip hop shows in the ‘80s and ‘90s to know the disappointment of realizing you were getting a night devoted to medleys. Got to see MF Doom live back when he was leading KMD and known as Zev Love X. Illmatic, 36 Chambers, Biggie-Tupac, I was there for all of it (as a Queens-born kid who grew up in the shadow of NYC, obviously I took Biggie’s side, even though taking sides in something like that was straight-up dumb; thankfully we’ve all learned our lesson, right?). Later on in adulthood, I got into Run the Jewels early enough that I was able to watch them go from resistance rap to dad rap, making them the Wilco of hip hop (that I still like both probably says more about me).

Am I saying all this to establish my cred or make myself feel better? Both, obviously.

Mainstream hip hop, more than any other music genre except maybe mainstream country, is the province of the young. And by “young,” I mean teens through mid-20s. Go to any indie rock show and you’ll find as many guys who look like me as you will people born circa Y2K. Pop stars, especially some of the biggest in the world, enjoy fans ranging in age from elementary school to their grandparents. Hip hop maintains its status as a supremely relevant genre because of its youth appeal, and as a result my opinion is rarely needed or warranted (this is reinforced whenever I spot a new playlist made by one of the kids – ages 13 to 20 – on our family Spotify account).

So when an album is released that’s targeted toward more… ahem… mature hip hop fans, I’m intrigued. The most recent example of this is Let God Sort Em Out, the first release in 16 years by the rap duo Clipse (brothers and Virginia Beach natives Pusha T and Malice). It’s not earth-shattering, it’s not life-changing, but it’s good. I just wish it was a little better.

The album tells me that it’s speaking on a grown-up’s wavelength right from the opening track, “The Birds Don’t Sing.” Pusha is 48 and Malice is 52, and they rap about not just their mother’s death, but about the mistakes and choices a person makes when they don’t realize time might be limited (“Told you I was going to Turks for Thanksgiving / I heard what I wanted to hear but didn’t listen”). It doesn’t take much for the song to express universal truths about priorities, time, and denial (“See, you were checking boxes, I was checking my mentions / Saying you was tired but not ready to go / Basically was dying but not letting me know”). A song about a personal low point is one of the album’s high points.

“All Things Considered” represents the flip side of Pusha and Malice as sandwich generation rappers and starts off by checking in on the brothers and their state of mind (“How I’m doing? / All things considered, let’s be specific / My mama cheek, I miss it, I wanna kiss it / Nige asking for siblings, I know he meant it”) before mixing the external concerns with the internal (“My homies that didn’t die was all in prison / Visits behind the glass, my mirror image”). While Pusha’s and Malice’s rapping is as strong as ever, Pharrell’s beats and production don’t really keep up and, on “All Things Considered,” The-Dream’s hook feels out of place.

See, I think I buried the lede here. Pharrell Williams – longtime collaborator with Clipse who produced their 2006 masterpiece Hell Hath No Fury as part of The Neptunes – once again takes the lead producing Let God Sort Em Out, and that’s the album’s weak link. It’s not bad (Pitchfork has already gotten enough online heat for criticizing the album in general and Pharrell’s production in particular) but it suffers in comparison to the earlier work of everyone involved. Not as vibrant, not as demanding of your attention. Think Sly Stallone in Rocky III. Pharrell has spent so much time fighting tomato cans (composing for Minions, working as creative director for Louis Vuitton) that he might be out of practice behind the board when Clubber Lang steps to the mic.

Scattered throughout the tracks on Let God Sort Em Out is an AI-sounding female voice both embedded into and hovering over the songs repeating in monotone “This is culturally inappropriate.” This tag first appears on the heavy, but not as urgent or clever as it could have been, “Chains & Whips” (“It don’t take much to put two and two / Your lucky streak is now losing you / Money’s dried up like a cuticle / You’re gasping for air now, it’s beautiful”). “Chains & Whips” exemplifies my reaction to most of the album – I dig it and I appreciate it, but I feel like it could have been done just a little better, like there’s something missing.

Clipse get close to their Hell Hath No Fury apex on a couple of tracks. “Let God Sort Em Out/Chandeliers” is a powerful jam in which Pusha and Malice drop killer references (“Heat come, I’m DeNiro, I got the safe house”) until about two-thirds of the way in when the beat shifts, and Nas jumps in with a monster guest verse (“Single-handedly boosted rap to its truest place / Fuck speaking candidly, I alone did rejuvenate / Hip hop into its newest place”). Similarly, the pair are boastful on “Inglorious Bastards” (“Stand on every word whenever I wrote shit / Under my boots … nothin’ but GOAT shit”) over beats and loops that grab the listener by the collar. Tracks like “P.O.V.,” “So Be It,” and “Ace Trumpets” all have good starts, solid rhymes and positive elements, but I kept waiting for them to really take off and they never did. In those cases, the production didn’t enhance the rapping, it was just there.

It’s probably not fair to hold Clipse to a standard set almost 20 years ago. But man, Hell Hath No Fury was quite the high bar, and it’s the first thing I think of when Clipse is ever mentioned. I can’t be too negative about Let God Sort Em Out. I don’t dislike it, I’m just not bowled over by it. And I think I wanted to be bowled over. I’m glad it exists though, much in the same way that I felt when A Tribe Called Quest released We Got It From Here… Thank You 4 Your Service in 2016.

The final Tribe album was also released in the context of a recent passing (Phife Dawg), and my initial response to We Got It From Here was similar to that of Let God Sort Em Out – anticipation for its release, excitement that I would finally get to hear it, followed by acceptance that it was just OK. I didn’t return to We Got It From Here much after the initial few listens. Will I return to Let God Sort Em Out enough times to fully get what Pharrell was going for in his production? Maybe. But at my age it might be easier just to keep yelling at clouds. (Brian)

Album(s) from an upcoming/recent show: Music Excitement Action Beauty by Motherfuckers JMB & Co. As the old saying goes, what’s in a name? It’s hard to consider a record by a band with its first word as “Motherfuckers” and not discuss the name, just as was true with legendary Toronto punk band Fucked Up or the 90s indie band just called Fuck. The band is making a statement from the jump, whether it’s an actual “fuck you” or something more playful, in the lane of “we don’t give a fuck; we are here to do what we want because we can.” Essentially the band is saying from the beginning, “This is for the ‘heads.’ We know we’re probably going to keep our audience limited, but they’re going to be devoted, and we will make it worth their while.” Or at least that’s what I imagine. And in the case of this band, certainly feels true, with the emphasis on the playful and joyful. When you learn the name is an homage to a record made by a deep cut ‘70s krautrock band called Xhol Caravan, you know this is not a band looking to get in your face; they want you to go on the journey with them.

On that note, I never quite understood the bands that have used “Experience” in their name; mainly the Jimi Hendrix Experience and the Mr. T Experience in my, well, experience. They were bands. And although I would never question anyone who wants to start their band name with “Motherfuckers,” I could have finally understood the concept if these guys were called the JMB Experience. Because seeing them a few times in recent months and listening to their debut album, recorded in a single day in Takoma Park, is most certainly an experience.

The critical take on this band so far focuses on the two members who are from famous acts, namely GWAR and Animal Collective (two certainly distinct and well-chosen band names). And of course they do. The Animal Collective guy (known as Geologist in that band, or as Brian Weltz, the handle his loving parents gave him), for example, plays a hurdy-gurdy for the entire show. Never stops. Just turning this hurdy-gurdy, and you’re not entirely sure how it’s possible for him to keep going. The ice on his shoulder after a show must resemble a starting pitcher who’s thrown 110 pitches. And, of course, the drummer was in GWAR in the 1980s before going on to a career in record label ownership/music promotion. (Yes, that GWAR, which dresses up in costume and throws blood from the stage.) And yeah, he’s a hell of a drummer.

But I’ll focus on the other guy. Partly because he’s a friend of mine, a fellow WOWD-LP DJ, and a hardworking DC Public School official, but mainly because he is, to me, the star of the live show, I’ll concentrate a bit on Marc Minsker. Over the course of a live set (I’ve now seen them play three shows, most recently opening for Takaat, i.e. the side project of Mdou Moctar’s band) and on the record, Minsker plays guitar, bass, and harmonium. It’s the bass that is undoubtedly most distinct and, to a degree, I’m always a bit disappointed when he shifts away from it. Marc moves and generates more energy than his bandmates, again partly because he’s playing three instruments over the course of the set, and I can’t imagine how anyone could move or dance while also turning a hurdy-gurdy for 30+ minutes.

When I’ve seen the ‘fuckers (no idea if that’s a name they use for themselves but why not? What’s in a name, after all), they’ve either taken one break or none at all. And the songs have no lyrics, so it’s just the trio playing and grooving and taking you on a ride. It all moves seamlessly and truly feels like a single tune, even as Minsker navigates multiple instrument changes. To be clear, this would normally describe music I hate. If push comes to shove, I want short and punchy songs with a clear beginning and end (I don’t usually need a middle). I focus on vocals (they don't need to be words; just the voice as an instrument). I don’t want jamming.

So it was a welcome surprise to me that I went on the ride with the ‘fuckers and didn’t want it to end. I was also intrigued, and initially a tad disappointed, to see the album list different songs; I was getting ready for a single 30+ minute track. That subsided, though, as I allowed the individual pieces to have their own space.

“Rise” is a well-named intro to the experience the hurdy-gurdy’s ambience and often otherworldly tone allows. Things kick in with “Breakers,” initially with a steady, driving drumbeat, then bass, and we’re off in the world of where a psych-blues-rock jam can go. As I noted, I usually want vocals, and I could so clearly hear in my head the singer of the Black Angels coming in, esp as he does on “The First Vietnamese War” about 45 seconds in, but over time, I’ve let that go and allowed the instruments to speak for themselves. This track is definitely where the Motherfuckers earn their name.

“Strange Planet” works around an early Pink Floyd-esque riff and then we’re off on a less driving but no less captivating journey, replete with noise and feedback that adds the texture I miss without vocals. “Breakers Part 2” starts contemplative and then also kicks in after 90 seconds or so, where you can really feel Thomson’s power as a drummer. “Studio B” and “Route 29” each go on their own psychedelic-feeling journeys, before “Keep the Temp” brings things to a close again with a blues-y and driving conclusion; the middle of this track brings together everything this band does so well: propulsive energy that melds together seamlessly but where each piece can take you on a separate ride if you zero in on it.

If I have a tiny complaint, it’s that I wish that the “Breakers” and Breakers Part 2” didn’t end with fades to silence but found a way to keep some element of noise or sound transitioning into the next tracks. Minor quibble, but it happens so smoothly on the others that the slight gap ends up being noticeable to me.

Balancing out the Motherfuckers JMB & Co band name is the name of the album: Music Excitement Action Beauty. You get all of those on this debut release, but if you want to truly understand how all these names truly fit together, make sure to catch them live. (Brad)

Album being rediscovered (at least 10 years old): Lulu by Lou Reed & Metallica. Ever get the feeling, however briefly, that you got something completely wrong? Maybe this happened at work, and you dreaded the possibility of getting chewed out. Maybe this happened in your home life, where you made a parenting mistake or said something insensitive to your partner, fearing you’ve damaged your child or your relationship irreparably. Those are all serious fears related to serious matters and serious fuckups. But sometimes we think we got it wrong about something thoroughly and totally unserious, and the only negative repercussion is that we’re left out of the exclusive “Well, Actually Club” that says “no, you fools of the unwashed masses, you’re not in tune on the same higher plane of awareness as we enlightened few, and only we know the secrets of art and music and life.”

I had this feeling for a brief, fleeting moment. It was more like 7-8 hours, but in the grand scheme of Earth’s time, it was a brief, fleeting moment. I listened to a recent episode of the Jokermen podcast on my morning commute during which Jokerman Evan Laffer interviewed Wand frontman Cory Hanson, who was promoting his new solo album I Love People (brief note: I very much enjoyed the album, although its soft-rock singer-songwriter experience is very different from his rocking 2023 solo album Western Cum – one of my favorites of that year – and Wand’s 2024 garage-psych album Vertigo, which landed on my honorable mentions list).

Because Hanson has a song on the new album called “Lou Reed,” Laffer asked him about Lou (like myself and many, many others, Hanson is a fan). Hanson said, among other things, that he believed that the best stretch of Reed’s career was from New York all the way through Lulu, his final album in 2011 with Metallica. Hanson’s belief was that this was the real Lou, not the junkie persona from the ‘70s. Amazingly, Hanson went on to say that “Junior Dad,” the nearly 20-minute song that closes out Lulu, was the best way for Reed to cap his career.

I’m sorry, what?

To be clear, I absolutely love Lou Reed. It’s not a hot take to say he’s one of my all-time favorite artists. And late period Lou Reed definitely has its genuine highs points. New York is a masterpiece, one of Reed’s absolute best albums. That was followed by Songs for Drella (with John Cale), Magic and Loss, and Set the Twilight Reeling, all of which ranged, at times, from very good to great. Ecstasy had its ups and downs, but the ups were just fine and the downs were godawful. (I’m not bothering to consider the concept album The Raven and Reed’s tai chi accompaniment Hudson River Wind Meditations.)

But Lulu? Reed’s fiasco of a double-album recorded with Metallica? An album I didn’t just dislike but found thoroughly repellant in every way upon its release? Hanson chose to include Lulu in Reed’s glory years – “the real Lou,” as he said on the podcast – and went on to discuss with Laffer about the quality of the songs and the recording, implying that the near-universally-reviled album was not properly appreciated? Is it possible Hanson is right? Did I overreact in the moment and not give Lulu its due, thus denying me a spot in the Lulu wing of the Well, Actually Club?

In short, no. Sorry, Cory. I love your work, but we’ll have to agree to disagree on this one.

Let’s start with the music. As Chuck Klosterman once wrote of Lulu, it’s not designed for people who like music. Which puts me at a double disadvantage because, while I love music, I’ve never been a metal guy and I’ve really never been a Metallica guy (aside from enjoying the roadside car-wreck voyeur experience that is the magnificent Some Kind of Monster). So while I’m predisposed to say negative things about Metallica’s contributions to the album – which is to say, everything beyond Reed’s incoherent ramblings (more on those later) – I have to say that Lulu is the worst kind of late period aging metal dreariness. No creativity, nothing interesting. The bulk of the music sounds like every Guitar Center bro plugging in for the first time.

On top of all that, the songs are pompous and so very, very long. “Cheat on Me” starts with three minutes and six seconds of orchestral-choral instrumental sounds while Metallica appears to get warmed up (only 8:19 more to go!). “Pumping Blood” and “Mistress Dread” both open with roughly 30 seconds of unnecessary out-of-tune strings that were so mismatched with the ensuing Neanderthalic bass drum pounding of Lars Ulrich that even John Cale probably thought it was excessive. The former may have been pushing things at a running time of 7:23, but thankfully the latter comes in at a brisk 6:51. Supposedly, Reed was in such poor health he had difficulty standing and had a “napping corner” in the studio that he used while Metallica recorded their parts. The boys might have needed a little more quality control.

Speaking of Reed, his contributions were primarily the lyrics and vocals. Many of these songs were previously written and recorded by Reed as demos, intended for a play based on the work of a German playwright. As the story goes, Reed brought Metallica in, after playing together at the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame’s 25^th Anniversary Concert, to enhance and arrange the songs into their final form. You know, kind of like how a certain tech mogul enhanced and arranged a storied DC media outlet. Arguably good intentions, same disastrous result.

Let’s start with the opening lines to track one, “Brandenburg Gate” – “I would cut my legs and tits off/When I think of Boris Karloff and Kinski/In the dark of the moon/It made me dream of Nosferatu/Trapped on the Isle of Doctor Moreau.” Wow. Way to make an opening statement. Not the route I would have chosen. As an album opener, this isn’t exactly “Vicious” or “Romeo Had Juliette” or “Smalltown” or even “My House.” The imagery is nuts even for a guy who wrote a song called “Sex With Your Parents (Motherfucker) Part II” (there is no Part I and I’ll defend that song to the death).

“The View” was ostensibly the first single from Lulu, and while I can hear the bones of a rock single (a different band might have helped), the lyrics find Lou shouting at the air, “I am the root! I am the progress! I am the aggressor! I am the tablet!” I am confused. The aforementioned “Cheat on Me” finds Lou speak-singing “Why do you cheat on me?” and “Why do I cheat on me?” (among other things) over sporadic droning guitar and drum sounds for over 11 goddamn minutes. “Cheat on Me” makes me think of Loutallica performing terrible onstage septuagenarian beat poetry a la Mike Myers in “So I Married An Axe Murderer.” Sticking with movies, “Cheat on Me” is like if the fictional song “Joe Lies” from the film “Say Anything” was written not by a similarly fictional high school girl but by a very real and very misanthropic aging man.

Which brings us to “Junior Dad,” the album closer and easily the most interesting song on the album. Best way to cap a career? Oh, hell no. But interesting. The lyrics find Reed vulnerable (“Is it unfair to ask you/To help pull me up”) and self-aware (“The brain that once was listening now/Shoots out its tiresome message”). And musically, Metallica spend the part of the song at its least Metallica-ness, with the heavy riffs restrained and tuneful, almost a less-is-more approach. But (and tell me if you’ve noticed a theme here) at some point around minute 10, the song gets repetitive, feeling like you’re stuck in a loop. A condensed version of “Junior Dad” might have actually been the career capper that the Well, Actually Club thinks it is.

While I clearly don’t share Cory Hanson’s enthusiasm for Lulu, I can at least get behind his idea that his post-New York era was Lou at his best, even if I don’t necessarily agree. I read Will Hermes’ biography Lou Reed: The King of New York, as I’m sure Hanson did (strong recommend if you haven’t read it). A major takeaway from the book was that, aside from those closest to Reed, he was basically unknowable, a mystery box. A lot of what he said to people often seemed to ring true but likely wasn’t actually true. For much of his adult life, he really opened up only sparingly (I “met” him briefly after a show in Baltimore; he didn’t say much, but I still have the autographed ticket stub; I’m sure he was happy just to get rid of me).

While Reed’s mysterious nature could make him difficult to work with, the cool thing for fans is that it allowed anyone to decide on their own which Lou was the real Lou. If post-New York Lou was it for Hanson, cool. If Transformer-era Lou is the real deal for someone else, who am I to argue? He was a complicated individual, and there likely isn’t one correct answer anyway. A person is the totality of their actions and experiences, both positive and negative. Lou Reed wasn’t just a Factory denizen or a leather-clad junkie or a Honda Scooter pitchman or a quintessential New Yorker or a tai chi practitioner. He was all of those things. He was the Velvet Underground and Transformer and The Blue Mask and Metal Machine Music and Sally Can’t Dance and Mistrial and New York and Set the Twilight Reeling and, yes, Lulu. Because he was human and as imperfect as the rest of us. All for the better and all for the worse.

It's pretty clear where I think Lulu fits in. Even if that keeps me out of the Well, Actually Club. (Brian)