by ian desousa
Okay, it might not be completely fair to call Slightly Stoopid “reggae wannabes.” It could be considered misrepresenting of the band and insulting to the genre of ska. After all, the band started out 10 years ago with just 2 guys still in high-school getting signed to Brad Nowell’s (Sublime) Skunk label and playing surfer punk rock with an occasional off beat.
Since then they’ve swelled to 7 members and grown their sound from rich-kid punk to that shallow and bastardized blend of punk and reggae popularized by bands like Sublime and 311. The band’s latest album, Chronicitus, was lauded for it’s “pure Caribbean” sound with “heavy rocksteady, reggae, and dub influences” throughout. I thought perhaps they’d found a deeper appreciation for these genres and were ready to stop merely poaching the most superficial aspects of punk, reggae, and ska. Alas, ye people of taste, the only thing remotely Caribbean about this band’s sound could have only been copped from the seedy bar of a Sandals beach resort or some equally vapid locale. If ridiculous looking touristy ‘braids in ya’ hair pretty lady’ from Ochos Rios is your idea of authentic Caribbean, then Slightly Stoopid may well be your idea of authentic reggae, rocksteady and dub.
Despite some great talent on both sides of the board, including Mario C, producer of Beastie Boys’ fame, and two horn players from roots reggae greats John Brown’s Body, Chronicitis fails to deliver music with any real soul. To be fair, the musicianship on this latest album has some shine to it. C-Money lands some slick key work to the organ, the horns are well-timed, and even the dub bass has some slight moments of brilliance, but these glimmers of hope fail to bring the work as a whole out of tired, watered-down stagnation.
There’s more to island music than just an offbeat. The poorly faked Jamaican accents are equaled only by the flaccid raps and failed beats that are supposed to constitute some hip-hop flare. Add to this the band’s overwhelmingly un-interesting songs and their talent for writing lyrics that fail to be the least bit funny and one marvels at the staunch following this band has amassed.
I first learned of Slightly Stoopid’s most recent Jacksonville show (Thursday, November 15th at Freebird) because I heard Fishbone was playing. To my surprise, Fishbone wasn’t the headlining band, but rather the opening act. When I was asked to cover the show I was looking forward to seeing Fishbone, when I was asked to interview Slightly Stoopid as well, I agreed. I did my research, read the band’s bio, familiarized myself with their various releases, and prepared a list of questions to discuss with the band. After a few e-mails with the publicist to iron out the details, I tried giving Miles Doughty, one of the band’s co-founders, a call. And this is where things went awry. Despite a handful of attempts, voicemail, and some frantic shuffling from the band’s publicist, it became apparent that Slightly Stoopid was too busy, or considered themselves too important, to deign an interview. It’s one thing when you can’t schedule an interview with a band because they’re too busy or their “people” don’t call you back, it’s another thing entirely when everyone on their staff is trying to set things up and the band members just can’t be bothered. Rock star attitude, delusions of grandeur, and the unfortunate shortcoming of believing their own hype, what more can you expect from a band that’s holding bongs in most of their press photos? But no worries, there was still the show to review, and the publicist had assured me that I was on the list with a photo pass to be able to regale EU’s readers with tales of the sold-out show…
I always do a double take when going to a show at the Freebird. On one had, they get some fantastic acts in a variety of genres, on the other, I’ve had my share of dodgy experiences there. From a rude bartender trying to play “cocktail” and breaking a glass on the arm of a friend (and not apologizing) to the widow Van Zandt trying to work the door and denying a third-grade school teacher entrance to a show because she incorrectly thought her ticket was counterfeit to the unnerving way the second floor shakes and vibrates when the music gets loud, the Freebird has a knack for consistently embodying the greasier side of the Southern fried rock n’ roll it holds so dear.
But on this night, unfortunately for me and this article, I didn’t get past the Will Call window. After patiently explaining to the irritated employee at the window that I was on the list, scrutinizing over it with him, and realizing that either the band’s publicist or the club had dropped the ball and that my name was nowhere to be found, there was nothing more I could do but chalk it up to another memorable experience at the Freebird.
Though I escaped the show without injury or further drama, I walked away with that same mediocre feeling I get whenever I leave this particular venue, so close, but not really there – kind of like Slightly Stoopid.
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