Run-DMC: Crown Royal

BY NICHOLAS WEBB

Hip-hop stars have brief shelf lives. On Monday, your hit single is all over MTV; by Friday, you've dropped off the face of the earth. For the average 18- to 22-year-old Herald reader, just about any mid-'90s chart-topper is worth a solid hour or two of "man, back in the day"-ing. "Hip Hop Hooray?" "I Wish?" "Back to the Hotel?" VH-1's "Where Are They Now" won't be going off the air in my lifetime. And the '80s? They might as well be the Stone Age. LL Cool J's string of hits is the exception that proves the rule, and Public Enemy continues to soldier on, but otherwise, the rap heroes of the Me Decade have been old-school since before "Gangsta's Paradise" was new-school.

So why does Run-DMC think it can make a comeback with Crown Royal? It might be the George W./Ronald Reagan continuum, but in this case I'm betting that it's the Santana syndrome. Supernatural demonstrated that a few flavor-of-the-minute guests can get the kids to buy a record by musicians old enough to be their parents—so what better way is there to resurrect the original kings of rap-rock than by propping them up with a few of today's superstars?

Because today's superstars can wipe the floor with them, for starters. Carlos Santana may be old, but he's still a damn good guitarist; even an r&b snoozer like "Maria Maria" is worth sitting through to hear the master play. Hip-hop, on the other hand, has moved on since Run-DMC's heyday. The students—all the rappers who grew up listening to Run-DMC—have surpassed the teachers. Run and DMC just can't measure up to Nas and Method Man, who steal the show on "Queens Day" and "Simmons Incorporated," respectively.

And the guest stars from the rock world are simply ludicrous. Stephan Jenkins of Third Eye Blind contributes a generic vocal hook to "Rock Show," while Sugar Ray does its brain dead lite-rock-rap thing on "Here We Go 2001;" "Them Girls" is the first time the smug bellowing of Limp Bizkit frontman Fred Durst has graced my stereo, and hopefully it'll be the last.

The production doesn't help matters—generic 2001 studio glop is the wrong backdrop for Run-DMC, who were born to rock two turntables and a microphone. Tracks like "Crown Royal"—the only song on the album, incidentally, where there isn't a guest star—collapse under the weight of horns-and-strings bombast that would embarrass the Cash Money Crew. Twice they even resort to Puffy-style plagiarism, desecrating Al Green's sublime "Let's Stay Together" and Steve Miller's radio staple "Take The Money And Run."

The only truly worthwhile track, surprisingly enough, comes from Kid Rock. Say what you will about the Kid's heartland-pimp persona (I know I do), but at least he's honest. Unlike frat-angst whiners Durst and Jenkins, Kid Rock and his crew don't pretend to be anything other than a party band, and the old-school beat they contribute is closer to Run-DMC's classic singles than it is to anything else on the album. And that's the essence of their problem. When they get back to beatbox basics, Run-DMC can still rock a party—but retro purism won't get them airplay.

Desperate to modernize, yet still trading on their old-school cred, Run-DMC is stranded in a world that's passed them by. Barely two minutes into the album, guest Jermaine Dupri is lecturing the young'uns on the group's illustrious history: "The first rap group to get on MTV...and then they all turn around and resurrect Aerosmith, know what I mean?" But if they don't already know the story, Crown Royal isn't going to make them want to learn. Your time has passed, guys; it's time to hang up your Kangols. (Arista)

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