Krizz Kaliko summarizes his unusual career in a few bars on "S.O.B.", a dyspeptic song on his new release Legend: Fans don't give a damn if I put fifty on my wrist/All I gotta do is chop/But I don't make the hottest list.../My aesthetics pathetic/I look like I'm pregnant.

The man born Samuel William Christopher Watson IV in 1974 plays second fiddle to Tech N9ne in the Strange Music camp. Yet as I’ve asserted for years, Kaliko is the secret sauce at the Lee’s Summit, Missouri, based empire. In addition to singing, rapping and dancing at a high level, Kaliko is a human hook machine.

As implied by “S.O.B.,” Kaliko’s stockiness doesn’t impede fans’ appreciation of his formidable talent. Legend, Kaliko’s seventh solo album, is engaging partly because he repeatedly references his creative frustration. His grievances are justified. Legend isn’t nearly as good as it could be.

Kaliko is poorly served by the stale production that’s plagued Strange Music for years. He deserves better. Provided the opportunity to rap and sing on the fashionable throwback beats associated with Buffalo’s Griselda crew, the murky flow coming out of Earl Sweatshirt’s collective or the cutting-edge lo-fi soundscapes crafted by Slauson Malone, Kaliko’s name would almost certainly appear on the best-of lists he so clearly covets.

William Brownlee

August 25, 2020

Million Dollar Bash

William Brownlee

August 25, 2020

I’ve reluctantly recommitted to the onerous task of organizing The Museum of Dead People and Obsolete Technology, the cluttered realm also known as my unfinished basement. Consolidating old ticket stubs into a single box is one of the more enjoyable components of my job as chief curator. As I sifted through thousands of bits of paper, it occurred to me that I’ve spent more money on Bob Dylan than any other musician. Between concert tickets, physical recordings and books, I’ve almost certainly laid out more than a grand on the man.

Blood on the Tracks is one of several Dylan albums I’ve owned on cassette, vinyl and compact disc. The relentless flood of must-have sets of rarities and live recordings plays a further role in emptying my wallet, as does mandatory attendance at area appearances of Dylan’s enigmatic Never Ending Tour. I’ve even dragged my full brood to a couple shows. And while I own six or seven Dylan-related books, I’m relieved I’ve never been tempted to buy a t-shirt.

Dylan isn’t my only substantial investment. Here are nine additional artists who’ve separated me from inordinate amounts of money:

Mary J. Blige- Old-school R&B concert tickets are crazy expensive.
Bill Frisell- I accumulate dozens of Frisell albums the way other people collect baseball cards.
Thelonious Monk- I bought a Monk album at cost every Friday for nine months when I worked in a music distribution warehouse.
Charlie Parker- So many books! So many bootlegs!
Prince- He was omnipresent in the pre-streaming era.
Bruce Springsteen- Dylan redux.
George Strait- All hail King George.
Tech N9ne- I’ve seen more performances by the Kansas City rapper than all but a few dozen Technicians.
Bobby Watson- Two or three $20 door charges every year for more than 25 years add up.