Music: The Perfect Chord from @darrylzero: Vernon Reid

Each week, The Perfect Chord looks back at albums you may have missed when they dropped, or miss now that they’ve faded from memory. This week’s glimpse into the crates:

Vernon Reid – Mistaken Identity

Despite being best known as the bandleader and guitarist for pioneering rock group Living Colour, Vernon Reid’s musical journey had taken him through a variety of different musical paradigms. From his beginnings as a member of jazz legend Ronald Shannon Jackson’s ensemble to his appearances on albums by Public Enemy and Bill Frisell (among others) to his highest-profile gig, Reid’s versatility was as high in demand as his virtuosity on the guitar. Indeed, Reid’s very existence seemed to hinge upon his willingness to defy definition; he co-founded the nonprofit Black Rock Coalition with journalist Greg Tate and producer Konda Mason with the specific intent to “embrace the total spectrum of Black music.” By 1996, however, Living Colour was no more, and Reid, at the time a 16-year-vet of the music industry, decided to release his first “solo” album.

Backed by a predictably eclectic group of musicians–a band curiously named Masque, along with a laundry list of special guests–Reid enlisted the aid of both legendary jazz producer Teo Macero (the man behind Miles Davis’ Kind Of Blue) and hip-hop icon Prince Paul (fresh off his first Gravediggaz album, on which Reid guested) to generate a collection of bizarrely gorgeous songs with absolutely no genre affiliation and, yet, a surprising level of focus. From the alarm clock sample that kicks off album opener “CP Time” to the demented, vintage Prince Paul minstrel show advertisement skit at the end, Mistaken Identity isn’t so much an album as it is Reid’s comprehensive manifesto on how music ought to be perceived–without borders, limits, or labels.

The end result is as chaotic as it is breathtaking. “CP Time” itself moves effortlessly from downtempo funk and hip-hop (complete with a verse by future Anti-Pop Consortium member Beans) to post-modern jazz (via Leon Gruenbaum’s ascendant keyboard solo) to crunchy power-rock, buttressed by a blues sample scratched in-and-out of the mix by DJ Logic. The song is as busy as it is ambitious, a melange of every Black-created musical style in pop music–and it’s the album opener.

From there, it only gets more intricate. “You Say He’s Just A Psychic Friend” begins as a jazz boogie and metamorphoses into something Chubb Rock would feel comfortable rapping over–which he does. Not content merely blurring musical languages, “Who Are You? Mutation 1)” blurs spoken languages as well, featuring samples in English and French and a bilingual verse rapped by Japanese hip-hop legend Kan Takagi. “Lightnin’,” ostensibly a Lightnin’ Hopkins cover, showcases Reid’s massive-sounding guitar tone and Hank Schroy’s nimble bass skills. Towards the end of the album, “Freshwater Coconut” finds Schroy laying down a menacing reggae groove over Watts’ drums, with Reid and clarinet player Don Byron harmonizing while dancehall queen Lady Apache toasts, and “Unborne Embrace” features whispering synth-strings, Reid’s Ebowed guitar, and Byron’s ornate clarinet creating a surprisingly sedate, classical-inflected atmosphere.

The album’s heart and soul, however, is a three-song stretch in the middle beginning with “Saint Cobain,” which hinges on a simple, three-chord guitar figure, around which Logic’s scratches and Reid’s whispered vocals float in the mix. The song itself is an overt tribute to the then-two-years-dead Kurt Cobain (whom Reid also thanks in the liner notes), and clearly stylistically recalls the big-guitar “Seattle sound.” Immediately after “Saint Cobain,” Laurence Fishburne shows up to narrate a fictional Karma instruction manual for “Important Safety Instructions” while sitars–or perhaps guitars that sound like them–strike up a conversation with talking drums. “What’s My Name” begins soon after Fishburne’s voice fades; the song, with Watts laying down a fast 9/8 breakbeat while sampled beats slip in-and-out of the mix, features Byron, Gruenbaum and Reid frantically riffing off one another, using a three-note figure as the springboard for solo after solo. The song abruptly stops two minutes in; what sounds like a saxophone sample clears the palate, Watts brings the beat back, and Reid cuts loose. The ensuing minute-long solo is a maniacal exercise in jazz precision, occasional blues bends, and unabashed heavy metal crunch, overtaking everyone else in the song and reminding the listener that it is, in fact, Reid’s show. By the time he rejoins Schroy and the rest, doubling the bass line and creating a Soundgarden-esque odd-time roar (Reid admits to having been influenced by the band at the time the album was recorded), the song is a microcosmic example of what Mistaken Identity really is: music that is truly anything, everything, and nothing save for the expression of a few talented, soulful people.

The album, understandably, didn’t exactly blow up on MTV–at least, not as much as Living Colour did–but it did receive near-universal critical acclaim, and sold quite well for something so idiosyncratic. Reid, of course, continued along his eclectic spiral, bringing Masque with him in various incarnations–either as themselves (releasing Known Unknown and Other True Self in 2004 and 2006, respectively) or as the backing band for himself and DJ Logic (The Yohimbe Brothers). Living Colour even reunited, releasing albums in 2003 and 2009 and continuing to tour today. Mistaken Identity, however, is completely unforgettable–it’s an incredible artifact, a labor of love for so many different talented, respected, and prolific artists who would go on to have astounding careers–and, most of all, it’s the unmistakable vision of a truly pioneering artist.

A. Darryl Moton is a high school debate coach, preschool bus driver, Black Iowan, and numerous other things that make you doubt his sanity. He currently owns no umbrellas in Portland, Oregon.