It can't be easy being a self-appointed censor: Not only must you sit and fume as the world goes to hell in a boombox, but you're faced with the time-consuming task of sifting through countless rap and metal albums in order to ferret out offensive material. That's why the P.M.R.C. and its ilk ought to be grateful for Body Count, rap star Ice-T's thrash album, since it provides the
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porn patrol with the equivalent of one-stop shopping.
Hate those dirty lyrics? Then you'll love "KKK Bitch," in which Ice-T boasts of butt-fucking a white girl at her daddy's KKK rally. Hung up on family values? Get your blood boiling with "Momma's Gotta Die Tonight," a matricidal masterpiece of death and dismemberment. And if you're concerned about antipolice attitudes, order an all-points bulletin for "Cop Killer" or "Smoked Pork," tunes that make N.W.A seem like the Patrolmen's Benevolence Association. In fact, this album would be the perfect centerpiece for a record-banning campaign were it not for one thing: It's all a joke.
Body Count isn't an assault on society but a goof on the hyperbolic rebelliousness thrash has come to epitomize. Listen closely and the album's tone isn't angry, but playful and sarcastic; even the fact that Ice-T doesn't sing so much as intone the lyrics suggests that this is not a pro forma metal band. With Body Count, style is everything, and at his best, Ice-T invests his musical misdeeds with the campy good humor of prime Alice Cooper.
That's not to say Body Count is without a serious side. "There Goes the Neighborhood," for instance, uses its sarcasm as a mocking indictment of rock racism ("Don't they know that rock is just for whites?"), while "The Winner Loses" – which features the album's most conventional vocal – is a touching and telling anticrack ballad.
But messages count less for this band than sheer physical release, and at bottom that's where Body Count really makes its mark. By tapping into the good-natured aggression of thrash – glorying in its crunching guitars and double-time rhythm work – Body Count offers the sort of sonic intensity parental groups fear even more than four-letter words. And that's no joke. (RS 630)
J.D. CONSIDINE
