Agricultural Appropriation with Monkey Bizzle

There’s no sophomore slump for Monkey Bizzle; prolific in their art, these rural chav-choppers return with a second album, Agricultural Appropriation, only five years and a kazillion bongs after their debut, Idiot Music, and it be gurt lush, shagger….

Not on the guesstimate I’ve passed a thousand plays of Oi Mate, their tune from Idiot Music about the ultimate scrounger, and figured these guys know a blagger when they see one, rather on the grounds I laughed out loud more times at the opening tune than I’ve laughed at any comedy song, ever, possibly combined, I brought this album rather than requested a review copy; it’s going in my personal collection, even if you can’t skin up on an mp3.

Legend has it Malmesbury’s Corky coined the term agricultural hip hop. Brilliant though he is at penning and acoustically delivering an original, his showstoppers are usually parodies of hip hop classics; think gangster’s paradise and change to Ginsters, for example. Questioning if we’re in the same ballpark here, because Monkey Bizzle are 100% original and, save the odd spoken sample or dodgy scratch, they’re backed by a bone fide band. It’s more than rap with a capital C. Not much more but definitely more.

So, if the term is founded, we could debate the boundaries of agricultural hip hop till the cows come home, literally; ie, if you’re producing hip hop and live rurally, does it automatically class your output as agricultural hip hop? The opening title track therefore either ponders if they’re guilty of “agricultural appropriation” being, while dwelling rurally, they’re not farmers, as is the common misinterpreted stereotype in urban areas where hip hop trends, or, more likely, it’s just a self-deprecating exercise with hilarious consequences, as it is with many of the their songs.

In 1985 Derek Showard, or GrandMixer DXT said “the Bronx is the home of hip hop,” not Bridgwater, but we’ve come this far from NY hommies, and a melting pot of west country banter, folk and scrumpy, is fine, if slightly polluted. Monkey Bizzle dived in, and the result is as funny as it is accomplished. For while they’re more Grandmaster Smelly Mel than Melle, and more whole mouth than tongue-in-cheek, still they manage to rock a rhyme that’s right on time, and that’s not just tricky, it’s tr-tr-tr-tricky, trrrrrrrrrrricky, apparently. One certainty, Monkey Bizzle keeps it realz on a geographical level close to us, and with West Country banter as twisted as it generally is, this is as raw as it could be. This album is  dope in more ways than one, and exceptionally well produced.

It’s backed sometimes by a ska offbeat, others the wailing guitar riffs of much of Caucasian hip hop-rock crossover, and boom bap, though they’d probably titter if you plural it to “baps.” It’s as if Viz creator Chris Donald joined A Tribe Called Quest at Glastonbury, as the absolute filth knows no bounds, but is waxed lyrical with definite perfection. They couldn’t even hold back for the customary ballad; needless to say any song with lines like “you’ve got nits in your bits but I don’t give a shit,” and “I’m never gonna stop licking around your welly-top” is not the song I would advise you to play in a romantic setting. But, laugh, you will. 

There’s separate odes to getting high and the fateful just popping out for a pint after work scenario. There’s one tune about a guy called Bubbles, who makes The Shaman’s Ebenezer Goode look like Cliff Richard, another appears to be a homage to shopping at Lidl, with the genius rhyming of “Lidl” with “middle,” and one about a technophobe trying to operate the camera on their phone, questioning the worth of it all.

The disambiguation of the ironic slang “ill” in hip hop as a positive is switched far too literally. There’s an overload of bravado as the genre requires and quips aplenty dissing their rivals, The Skimmity Hitchers, where any turf war doesn’t get dirtier than accusations of shagging badgers. 

But if there’s any likeliness of west country rural hip hop as a contender, convincing and earning respect from city hip hop aficionados, rather than ever remaining just a comical displacement, it’s the final tune, The Cypher. Without topic it’s a nine-minute freestyle collaboration with a host of rappers, none stating their rural or urban environment; Dr. Syntax, Cecil McFarrell Aka Mr Vocab, Chiman 101, Ez Dickens, Samantics, Finn Kinnara, Tatty MC & Fake Dave, all of whom I must research, and our favourite Bristol boom bappers The Scribes. Perhaps this flips the agricultural appropriation concept on its head, asking provided they had fun entertaining, which I couldn’t imagine them not,  if it matters at all and if anyone gives two fucks where a rapper resides, town or country.

Of course, there will always be a renounced Welsh rapping clan, UK comedy hip hop acts will always be likened to, but who’s zooming who in a world where comedy has been evident in hip hop since its inception? Think the Treacherous Three’s Santa Rap in Beat Street, along with a young Doug E. Fresh, and the plethora of carefree lyrics from De La Soul to English reggae’s legendary fast-styler Smiley Culture.

The jury is out, perhaps Agricultural Appropriation has a hidden philosophy, perhaps it lays down the possibility rural hip hop can be accepted by city folk, perhaps it’s even the album to break those boundaries, but definitely and more simply, it’s a hilarious riot, a mixture of off-colour deadpan and comedy rap, and a damn entertaining listen; I pissed me pants giggling while in backspin and sprayed the crowd like Charlie Dimmock’s garden sprinkler, mate.

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