Review Summary: Everything wrong with rap rock, and then some.
During the late 1990s and the early 2000s, rap rock and/or rap metal made the unfortunate transition from a generally cool genre with some talented acts, into a swathe of degeneracy and angsty, misogynistic white-boy rappers with little-to-no style or unique talent, which more or less has tarnished the genre’s general reputation for good. And while there’s definitely many names people could argue are white-boy-rap-rock’s worst, there is one particular band that I am now convinced can be crowned (or clowned) the genre’s
definitive worst act. This band is Brougham (Bro-haam), and their sole studio album,
Le Cock Sportif (wow, you’re so funny!), is a forty minute audible presentation of the worst aspects of rap rock, condensed into a single CD/plastic drinks coaster. Now, you may tell me that “you’re being triggered!!!” by the album title, or by the explicit nature of the lyrics, but trust me on this one; this is an album you wouldn’t wish on yourself, your hombres, or your enemies.
Generally, rap rock/rap metal acts circa 2000s tended to have one or more of these flaws;
1. Cliched/unoriginal “heavy rock” attitude
2. Stupid/angsty/horny/no one cares
3. Boring/shallow/hollow
4. Novelty
But for Brougham, one was not enough; and so we are instead presented with
Le Cock Sportif, a ten song collection that generally embodies all four flaws all at once throughout, and the resulting album is a stupid, incongruous and shallow mess of dull, overhyped hip hop and rock numbers. The album’s production, courtesy of Jason Slater (et al.)*, is primarily composed of very average songs which feel as though they have little to no direction in terms of actual musical
substance; it’s as if Slater decided to throw thousands of effects and samples at the wall, whatever they were, and hoped they work. The result of that half-hearted attempt at “production” is that the album is utterly confusing and nonsensical at times (especially during bridges). It’s disappointing, and often infuriating, that most of the album's songs feel incoherently arranged, despite your hopes they would piece together somehow.
On one hand, all of the album’s rock songs are barely passable, generic and generally indistinguishable from contemporary acts of the time; “Murked Out” is a rip-off of “Back In Black” by AC/DC, “Kareem” is limp and awkward when the guitars kick in, and “Can’t Sleep It Off” is a paint-by-numbers nu metal song in the vein of Kid Rock. On the other hand, the album’s hip hop numbers may sound interesting on the surface, but are either marked by dumb moments (the chorus of "Hubba Rock", basically) or too repetitious to the point where it begins to drag due to their lack of variety ("Bong Hits" , "Naw Mean"). The album’s production is generally better on the tracks where Slater decided to collaborate with other producers, such as with the David Kahne co-produced “Sangria”, the only song I find well produced, which boasts a uniquely dense, poppy, lavish soundscape. (also, it’s probably better because guitarist Tony Fradinelli contributed to the song). But again, that leaves you with most of the album’s songs sounding like a slapped together mess of sounds and ideas than a coherent vision. Oh well. I know how I’ve said that there’s some passable tracks here, but there’s one problem which this album can’t escape from; age. This album, undeniably, is very,
very dated in all of its aspects, and with no real standout tracks besides the unoriginal paint-by-numbers ones,
Le Cock Sportif has such as short musical lifespan past the year 2000 and gets mouldy fast.
The real star of the shxtshow, besides production, lies with rapper Luke Oakson (Luke Sick) whose very existence on this record is the source of most of its poor quality, due to one simple, undeniable fact;
Oakson is not a likeable rapper. His mantra is easily summarised with this line from the album opener “Don’t Speak English”;
“Gibberish lyricist, greatest of all time”
If you didn’t get it, this translates as
“I have nonsensical pretentious lyrics about how great I am and then some”, for the most part. Oakson’s flow consists of slurring and blurring his words into subliminal incoherency, and though this sounds like a cool technique, he fails to capitalise from it properly and his tone/pitch is mostly trapped in monotone during the individual songs. Which, as bad as it sounds, is better in contrast to his attempts to speak in any other tone than his normal one, which come off as dumb, obnoxious and forced, such as on “Kareem” and “Bong Hits”. The albums lack of variety in terms of its production, combined with Oakson’s awkward vocal moments (or lack thereof) make for an experience which can’t be enjoyed casually; even the song “Sangria”, which is arguably the most “complete” sounding song on the record, is ruined by a shoddy droned out chorus chant and Oakson. And it only gets worse from there with the lyrics. Contrary to the album’s press bio, which describes the album’s lyrics as being about how Slater and Oakson’s hometown of Palo Alto has changed over time (which is nothing more than a thin, pretentious veil), Oakson’s lyrical themes on
Le Cock Sportif are adolescent at best, and his bars are limited to weird descriptions of wooing or (wanting to/or) doing women, name dropping various figures, drugs and mere playground insults. Even as Oakson tells you about how he’s “got 'em murked out layin' dreadful” and “Gotcha momma wishin' that she never had you”, or when he tries to make a “deep statement” about drugs on the five minute dredge that is “Bong Hits”, his lacklustre vocal abilities make his threats or statements feel generally forced, dubious and/or incredulous. And when it comes to his lyrics about women, it gets worse; much, MUCH worse.
“Wow, you’re dedicating an entire section to how this guy raps about women?” Yes, I am, and I have plenty of reason to; because whatever poor quality he has on those songs drops to the depths of hell, metaphorically and also legally, when he tries singing about women. For starters, the novelty jive song that is “Main Chick” has the potential of being an all around okay song, and its premise of Oakson wanting to make this girl he knows his “Main Chick” is fine on the surface; unfortunately, it becomes apparent extremely quickly about how Oakson has put too much thought into the subject that it becomes overly detailed and awkward. And then…we enter degeneracy.
(CONTENT WARNING?) I’m not sure how to say this without getting really angry about it, but on two of the album’s songs Oakson comes off as, basically, not someone who should be around minors. The images that Oakson presents in “7th Grade” (age 12-13 years old) are disturbing to say the least, and “Hubba Rock”... made me both very sick and angry to say the least for what it suggests. I refuse to talk about it. It doesn’t help that Slater’s production for “7th Grade” is very… childlike to say the least, and makes it all so unsettling. This can be applied for everything Oakson does, but with women he basically embodies what the 2 Live Crew and Gym Class Heroes would be without their self-awareness and cool factor, respectively; and, as just seen, it gets bad.
Honestly, I thought I might have tolerated this album more because I like a lot of 1990s and 2000s stuff, especially with some nu metal here and there, but on
Le Cock Sportif poor quality is like an undeniable truth or a natural attribute to it, to the point where I just threw in the towel out of exhaustion and gave up with being more positive about it. I know I like writing reviews with a lot of detail, but trying to source anything worthy of merit or notable out of
Le Cock Sportif was akin to trying to find a needle in a haystack, because it felt like there was so little to actually discuss. Actually, that point sums it up alone; this album has no value whatsoever. The only time this godforsaken album had any value was when it was being sold on store shelves back in 2000 (for $11.98), after which its entertainment "value" likely depreciated with time until it, predictably, became worth nothing. This album is just Lanky Kong. It has no style, it has no grace, and it suits Brougham well as they’re both clowns. The band photo on the back of the tray card on the CD version of the album easily summarises what the album is; awkward, uncool, and needlessly overdoing it in a desperate attempt to hide the album’s terminal incredulousness. Well congratulations Brougham, for I have gifted you with yet another dubious honour to add to your portfolio (besides the one
SPIN gave you for the Worst Rap Rock Album Title); the award for the worst rap rock album of all time. You will not be missed.
1/5
* tracks 2,3,6,9 co-produced by David Kahne. 5 co-produced by Joe Barresi.
