Everlast's Eat at Whitey's

Everlast

Lord only knows how far he'd have taken that persona had it garnered him an enormous bankroll and a harem of devoted groupies. And good luck trying to "reinvent" yourself once you milk that poser cash cow to stardom. Vanilla Ice certainly can't be faulted for a lack of trying. We've seen several new Vanillas emerge since his implosion, though the public hasn't bought into any of them. "Oh no, this blunt-smoking, dredlocked guy you see?this is me," he said during the Cypress Hill days, and then during Korn-mania we heard, "No, no, no, this nu metal, industrial rock-rap blend thing I'm doing, now this is really me."

Lucky for Everlast, that isn't the way his story goes, and the same year he released that Vanilla Ice-wannabe record he reintroduced himself to the world as an Irish beer-swilling character hitting it big thanks in large part to House of Pain's addictive 1992 single, "Jump Around." But six years, two ignored follow-up House of Pain records and an obnoxious rap-metal revolution later, Everlast decided it was time to reinvent yet again, miraculously changing from that brawler into a pensive b-boy blues singer/songwriter/MC named Whitey Ford for 1998's Whitey Ford Sings the Blues. The spiel was that House of Pain represented E's irresponsible years of dangerous living and life-threatening overindulgence. He's older now, wiser. He's seen it all and is just glad to still be around to tell us about it. You know he almost died of a heart attack during the recording of the first Whitey record. Now he knows what it's like to sing the blues, and that hiphop/rock/pop record had listeners that heretofore were totally clueless as to what hiphop was really about touting that Everlast was the freshest thing to hit rap music since A Tribe Called Quest.

Now Whitey's taken Everlast on to a second record, Eat at Whitey's (Tommy Boy). But after all his chameleoning, the problem is trying to accept anything Everlast does as sincere. If he's constantly changing personas so dramatically, then who the hell is Everlast? We all believed him when he said he wasn't ever really that Vanilla Ice wimp or that silly House of Pain tough guy?those were more like characters. But what about Whitey? Is it just a matter of time before we hear Everlast claim that he wasn't ever really Whitey?

Maybe Whitey is for real. He doesn't latch onto any fad, at least not directly. He is doing a rock and rap blend of sorts, but Whitey's hybrid isn't as shallow and forced as Limp Bizkit's. Fred Durst & Co. are doing that crap because they know their only shot at success is marketing a hollow, angst-ridden shell to the disaffected suburban masses. But Whitey has soul. Pimping the whole heart-attack-survivor gig seems a little tired in light of our fascination with such matters when they're detailed for us on Behind the Music, but the guy really did almost die and that must be a pretty fucked-up thing to deal with. Perhaps that's why Whitey seems deeper and easier to swallow than the other current hybrids, even if the truth is that he, too, is full of shit.

And musically, Eat at Whitey's has some good stuff on it. When he isn't trying too hard to be the worn, reflective dramatist, Everlast can write as catchy and funky a rock track as anyone. And he makes up for what he lacks in rap skills with the same keen pop sense and simple party vibe he used to hook us on "Jump Around." Unfortunately, there's a lot less hiphop on Eat at Whitey's than there was the first time, but most of what is here is strong. On "One, Two" Everlast lets guest MC Kurupt flow for a while over a jazzy, bluesy loop, while the short opening track, "Whitey," is aimed at proving that Whitey's not incapable of rocking a party himself as he spits a maelstrom of old-school MC braggadocio like, "You thought I stopped rhyming because I started singing/Picking on a six string/Wrist bling blinging?Officials like referees/Fuck with me, put yo egos in jeopardy."

And his version of Slick Rick's "Children's Story" is as dope a rendition as has ever been attempted. He lays a jumpy blues guitar riff on top of the shuffling beats and piano line of the original, and kicks the type of fun, lighthearted rap song that it's obvious he's capable of, but is too often busy being somber and sensitive to deliver. Throw in a killer Cartman impression and Rahzel's always-wicked beatboxing and you've got damn good reasons to check this record out.

The rock songs he does without the album's many featured guests are good, too. "Black Jesus" and "I Can't Move" are both solid, rock-riff-led songs bolstered by fat bass and hard breakbeats that discuss some of the trials and tribulations of Everlast's (Whitey's?) life on the street, or maybe it's the trailer park, wherever?hard times shit. "If you're diggin' the mix, if you're feeling the drugs/If you're keeping it real, if you're living like thugs/I spit kisses and hugs like 45 slugs." Everlast's raspy blues-rap has gotten a bit more Tom Waits gravelly since the last time we heard it?his preaching feels more craggy and introspective.

With those cool songs, it seems downright sinful that Everlast felt the need to invite all his rock star friends to pitch in on (and fuck up) most of Eat at Whitey's. Their appearances seem shallow in the face of the songs' lackluster songwriting. Merry "Gimme Shelter" Clayton lends her pipes to an empty attempt at wistful contemplation in "Black Coffee," N'Dea Davenport fails to save "Love for Real" from sounding like overproduced schmaltz for real, and Cypress Hill's B-Real helps Everlast remember the glory days on a hardcore rap track, "Deadly Assassins," though somebody should've told them that B's tired nasal flow about keeping his hand on the pump and lighting joints ain't scaring nobody no more.

Most of the collaborations come off as overblown filler, and they leave a bad taste in your mouth despite the funky, more understated and genuine soul felt on some of the other tracks. I won't pretend to know what it's like to experience a heart attack, but Everlast's only 31 years old, so it gets kind of boring sitting on his knee song after song while he shares his epic, weathered outlook on life. Although his intent was to seem more honest than most of the other hiphop and guitar pop vying for TRL play, much of this record winds up seeming too contrived. It's not a total disaster; it's just that I'd rather hear Everlast throw a party than Whitey Ford open his heart. I guess at this point I'm tired of his shtick.