Here’s a question for your UFO nuts: If there are really advanced alien life forms out there, why haven’t they vaporized the Red Hot Chili Peppers? Your guess is as good as mine, but here’s what I do know–these Southern California socks-on-cocks have come close to killing me on multiple occasions, as I swerved into oncoming traffic in a frantic effort to turn the car radio dial to avoid “Under the Bridge.”
As my many near scrapes with mortality attest, the Red Hot Chili Peppers aren’t merely an annoyance; they’re a menace to all but the legions of Caucasian frat boys who’ve mistaken their ersatz funk for the real thing over the past 35 plus years.
The Red Hot Chili Peppers’ music isn’t, in and of itself, much worse than your average indie rock funk band. No, as anybody with intelligent ears will tell you, the Red Hot Chili Peppers’ real downfall is Anthony Kiedis. Kiedis sings the way Bruce Springsteen dances, and not even the combined efforts of Flea and John Frusciante–whose decision to rejoin the band is an even bigger mystery than the fate of the Marie Celeste–can overcome his singing, which does a grave disservice to vocal cords everywhere. Think of it this way; Kiedis is the iceberg that sank the Titanic, and Flea and Frusciante are the band that kept on playing as the ocean liner sank beneath the waves.
What makes Kiedis’ singing so god awful? That’s an easy one. On the ballad he aims for pathos, ands hits bathos right betweens the eyes. And on the funk numbers his rap shtick is as wooden as a cigar store Indian. Given the choice between Kiedis and Mitch McConnell, I’ll go with Mitch any day. He has more soul, and probably has cooler tattoos.
But let us turn to the1999’s Californication. First up are the skin-crawling ballads–including“Scar Tissue,” “Otherside,”and “Porcelain,” all of which any medical examiner will tell you show signs of rigor mortis. As for the mid-tempo numbers, Rick Rubin should have done the band a favor by mixing Kiedis’ vocal tracks down–preferably to the bottom of Lake Superior. Andthe high-velocity “Get on Top” is the only funk song worth repeated listening, if only to chuckle at Kiedis’ ghastly klunk funk and lame James Brown imitation. “Hit me,” sings Anthony. Don’t mind if I do.
Which brings us to the title track, which I hear every time I enter a gym, supermarket, dentist’s office, dollar store, Chinese takeout restaurant, and downscale mortuary. The song’s not a complete loss–I enjoyed the Showtime TV series with David Duchovny, and I like the way Kiedis rhymes Cobain with Station to Station. And you’ve got to love the way he opens the song with the lines,“Psychic spies from China/Try to steal your mind’s elation” before segueing into a bit about fucking little girls from Sweden. Stranger danger!
In fact, Kiedis’ lyrics are what I love most about Californication. On “I Like Dirt” Anthony demonstrates his deep knowledge of geology with the line,“ The earth is made of dirt and wood.” On “Scar Tissue” he wants to “taste your health.” On “Purple Stain” he informs us that “To finger paint is not a sin.” But his crowning achievement is on “Get on Top,” with its “Gorilla cunt illa/Sammy D and Salmonella/Come with me ’cause I’m an ass killer.” Seriously, Anthony, did you have to drag the Rat Pack into this?
Upwards of 20,000,000 copies of Californication have been sold since its release, but that doesn’t change the fact that it’s an aural atrocity. I’ve upped my grade a half-notch out of respect for Flea and Frusciante, both of whom play their hearts out. But they simply can’t compete with Kiedis, who’s stiff singing and lame crap raps may still be the death of me one day. Which may not be such a bad thing. Better drive into oncoming traffic than listen to “Under the Bridge.”
GRADED ON A CURVE:
D-
