greatest hits
‘In the album jacket guitarist John Frusciante states, “(Red Hot Chili Pepper’s songs) were conceived in a way similar to a bodily function.”
It’s a statement that captures the essence of RHCP. It’s odd and off-kilter. It’s slightly nonsensical. It’s curious and intriguing. It’s raw and disgusting. In its own right, it is a beautiful piece of art, like Marcel Duchamp’s “readymade,” R. Mutt-signed urinal. You’re not quite sure why or how it’s art but, nevertheless, it grabs your attention.
Over the past twenty years, the Chili Peppers have done everything in their power to make themselves a living, touring piece of musical art. They are constantly over the top, whether it be wearing tube socks on their phalli, or endlessly making out with each other. They’re an incestuous family. They are freaks, geeks, man-whores, and geniuses.
Frusciante’s guitar playing is awe-inspiring. Flea is a one-trick pony but, when that trick is talent, it gets you pretty far. Chad Smith is an above-average drummer, which is perfect for this band. If he showed off, the band would sound more like a novelty act, more like Primus. Finally, there’s no denying that Anthony Kiedis has an amazing voice and can write great melodies – but it’s his lyrics that really define him. If they form actual, coherent thoughts, he’s lucky. Any time spent deciphering the logic behind his well-rhymed verses and choruses is time wasted.
Although in a category all his own, he may be writing rap lyrics to rock songs. The lyrics are not nearly as bizarre the Ludacris line “It feels like a midget is hanging from my necklace,” but Kiedis’ lyrical stabs are nearly as inane.
So, for the maximum RHCP experience, turn off any higher-brain functions and enjoy the mesmerizing sounds.
The band’s evolution is highly visible on this best-of album, but the transition is more horizontal than vertical. On a whole, it’s not so much an improvement of sound as it is a maturation.
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