Just in time for Matrix fever, “Parallel Universe” speaks of an “underwater where thoughts can breathe easily/Far away you were made in a sea, just like me” to the beat of a track that hybridinally splits the difference between the Yardbirds and Eurodisco. (As a friend observed, if she didn’t know it was Kiedis, she would have thought the vocalist a Kiedis clone who could actually sing.) The point being that until you hear Californication, you haven’t ever heard Kiedis truly sang, as they say in the church, nor prove himself so adept and moving in the lyrics department, either. On “Scar Tissue” he laces out a falsetto purple enough to have made Jeff Buckley swoon with envy on “Savior” he croons and belts with enough chest-thumping pride to suggest that Vegas is just a kiss away, sustaining supple, buoyant tones with such ease, you know he must be amazing himself, too. The real star turn on this disc, though, is by Anthony Kiedis, whose vocal cords have apparently been down to some crossroads and over the rehab, and returned with heretofore unheard-of range, body, pitch, soulfulness and melodic sensibility. If there were a Most Valuable Bass Player award given out in rock, Flea could have laid claim to that bitch ten years running. As in days of yore, Frusciante continually hits the mark with slithery chicken licks, ingenious power chording, Axis: Bold as Love grace notes and sublimely syncopated noises that allow the nimble Flea to freely bounce back and forth between bombastic lead and architectonic rhythm parts on the bass. All this inside of song forms and production that reveal sublime new facets upon each hearing.īack in the revolving-guitar saddle is John Frusciante, of Blood Sugar Sex Magik fame, who replaces the outgoing Dave Navarro (who, of course, replaced Frusciante himself not so long ago) and proves once again why he’s the only ax slinger God ever wanted to be a Pepper, too. For Lord knows what reasons - age, sobriety, Blonde on Blonde ambitions or worship at the altar of Billy Corgan - they’ve settled down and written a whole album’s worth of tunes that tickle the ear, romance the booty, swell the heart, moisten the tear ducts and dilate the third eye. Up until this new Peppers joint, Californication, that is. Historically, though, RHCP albums have been long on sock-it-to-me passion but short on the songcraft that made their hero George Clinton’s most acid-addled experiments lyrically haunting and melodically infectious. Let’s keep it real: white boys do not have to be funky they only have to rock, and that the Red Hot Chili Peppers do quite wickedly, thank you.
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