[4] Outkast, ‘Ms Jackson’

Operating on some sort of mad, sickly, spandex level above conventional hip-hop, Outkast have the crossover appeal that hip-hop purists don’t want. At least Big Boi’s there to keep it real, but Andre 3000 is a space-age Prince even more indebted to the sleaze than his purple precedent. But then I’m not a hip-hop purist, so balls to it. And Big Boi can’t be keeping it THAT real, if he’s letting Soul Train glitter like this pass by under his nose.

The last thing you’d predict for this record is no reaction at all, but that’s what Junior gives it. She sits blankly staring at the stereo, not a twitch in her dancing feet. We found out later that she had a temperature, so well done, Dad, for trying to get her enthused about some shiny hipster-hop. I’m sorry, Miss Junior. Oooo.

I wonder if Erykah Badu’s mom took the apology with good grace. Somehow, all that appropriation of the wedding march makes ‘Ms Jackson’ seem a touch insincere. Glorious stuff, though, forever-evah.

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