Pop Vulture

The second independently released album from this tremendous funk-rock quintet is, in part, the album that Lenny Kravitz's 5 could have been. But then, it is, in part, many things. The music of the Ghetto Monks is so diverse that it is virtually impossible to label, precisely the reason that the band themselves and their devout local following coined the term "runk" to describe it. It is certainly funky, sometimes heavily so, and it certainly rocks. It can be humorously tongue-in-cheek or heartfelt, dance-worthy or slow-cooking, silly or celebratory, but on Pop Vulture it is usually startlingly good, and deserves more widespread attention than it is likely to receive. Other than a few questionable missteps, the songs are strong, and the level of variety that the band finds within the seemingly restricted funk-rock genre is staggering. There is straight funk in the form of "Moses," with its pimp bass and sticky keyboards, and the anthemic "Top of the Mountain." The latter song is amusingly self-referential with its allusions to the band indulging in a certain herb-related pastime, but the determinedly soaring chorus also represents where the Ghetto Monks would like their music to reach and remain. And the crop-centric barnyard chanting of "Farmer John" would probably bring a smile even to Les Claypool's mug. "A Train," on the other hand, is straight rock, as good as "Mr. Cab Driver" from Kravitz's 1989 debut Let Love Rule, which it resembles. From there, the path begins to diverge in intriguing ways. "Rollin'" is something like folk-funk, mixing strummed acoustic guitars with an incredibly fat low end (and particularly dexterous bass playing from B.J. Poe) with Wanz's fabulous bluesy vocals, at first mellow, then searching, then gritty and triumphant. Other than some insipid AOR guitar solos from Jim Venn (who is otherwise strong on the rest of the album), the harmony-peppered ballad "Morning" is a surprisingly supple shift, a symbolic rebirth after prevailing melancholy. And the band again confounds expectation on the closing "One More Minute," a weepy piano ballad that, while leaning to the saccharine side, is nevertheless a stretch they pull off effortlessly. The album is by no means perfect. The zany, early Red Hot Chili Peppers-esque "Jake the Alligator Man" and heavy metal funk of "Candy Coated Condoms" wade just a shade too deeply in novelty, and even on the finest songs you get the feeling that the band would have preferred to stretch out more than the studio allowed, and show why they are such a superb live band in the process. As funky as the music is, it really belongs on the same outdoor festival circuit that nourished bands like Phish and Zen Tricksters, where its unifying message of partying and positivity can gestate and the elements can find the appropriate niches within the songs. But even if they are too loose to be tied down or too difficult to describe, the Ghetto Monks bottled something special on Pop Vulture.