Logo design, album artwork and co-producer/writer of musical skits for the critically acclaimed and politically incendiary 90’s hip-hop album Tricks of the Shade by The Goats. Produced by: Oatie Kato and Joe “The Butcher” Nicolo. ©1992 Ruffhouse/Columbia Records
ROLLING STONE (650) ★★★★ “On Tricks of the Shade, the Goats talk politics like N.W.A talks calibers. Rocking old-school cadences flowing with aqueous rhythms from blunts to Ollie North, they make like Cypress Hill without their hands on the pump or the Beastie Boys with their minds on the state of the nation or even, when their live band opens up airy spaces amidst the funk, Basehead with an ear to the street. The Goats, an interracial crew from Philadelphia, are the first rappers to name-check Billy Bragg, which should tell you something about their idea of political science. They’re smart, but they like a good slogan more than a coherent program, for one thing, slogans make better rhymes. They encapsulate their Afro-centricity with the line “Apple pie, never; sweet potatoes, better” and generally jump from target to target, linking their jabs at Republicans with jabs at sucker MCs. But when the Goats brag that they’re “here to cut throats,” they never leave any doubt that the suckers they really want to take out make policy, not records. Pro-lifers pop up throughout as “pipers” (as in “on the”) and crimes against Native Americans get major mike time. It’s billed as a “hip-hop era,” which means that the songs are linked by skits depicting the travels of Chickenlittle and his brother Hangerhead (his mother has been sent to Prolivin Prison) through Uncle Scam’s Federally Funded Well Fair and Freak Show. Even with a five-piece band that can shift gears like a DJ cutting records, hip-hop fans who munch samples like Fritos may not find the beats explosive enough, which is a shame. Not just because these beats swing, but because the Goats’ outlook, free of misogyny and white devils, flavored with Black-Italian unity, heavy with hatred for the Amer-iKKKan ruse, is as welcome in hip-hop as the Hendrix-like buzz that flutters throughout “TV Cops.”
ABOVE: The insert for the first GOATS demo cassette featuring: Oatie, Swayzak Love and Rucyl Mills. Note the original GOATS logo holding a bowl of pasta. BACKSTORY: Formed The Goats with my brother James (a.k.a. Oatie Kato) while living above the Fortune Cookie Restaurant at 211 Chestnut Street in downtown Philadelphia. James had just come off a gig designing hardware for a NASA satellite and I had just finished a year long stint teaching art to incarcerated teens. James used his engineering skills to figure out Pro-Tools and to transform his Mac Classic into a recording studio. Our first attempts were utterly sophomoric, and only got marginally better once we recruited the talented singing Mills sisters (Love and Rucyl) as well as our slide guitar playing pal, RC Cola. It wasn’t till one of the hotdog cart salesman on our block auditioned for us by rapping over a beat he tapped out with his fingers on our front door that we came face to face with true hip-hop talent. This was Swayzak. With Swayzak and with James’s ever-improving beats, we performed a few shows around town and then threw a blowout house party in our enormous 2nd floor loft space above the Fortune Cookie. Swayzak blew the roof off that night, and made it clear that my truly wack rhyming skills were no longer needed- so I quit my day job and hit the road. It wasn’t long after that renowned Philly DJ King Britt introduced James to Mad Maxx, and the final lineup of the band was set. Six months later, while slinging a pick axe in the rattlesnake infested hills of northern California, I got the call from James that The Goats had been signed to Ruffhouse/Columbia– and he asked if I’d come back to Philly and help with the production. My old room was now inhabited by William Reed, a monster truck driving waiter, beer brewer and raconteur from Reading, PA who has since become the celebrated Philly restaurateur. The quintessential moment from that time for me was seeing Maxx, buck naked and holding a beer (his standard party uniform), on the roof at an after-show house party, silhouetted against the Phila skyline and the William Penn statue, atop city hall in the not to far off distance, seemingly standing right next to him. From the view a few of us had, it did look like William Penn was holding Maxx’s penis. This juxtaposition didn’t appear sexual, or aggressive, but rather as if Penn was politely providing a utilitarian service (of a kind) to a compatriot, or offering a long overdue reparation to an under-appreciated fellow Philadelphian. In this fleeting moment, unbeknownst to Maxx, who broke the spell upon heading inside for another beer, the revolution of that present moment was acknowledged by the revolutionary of the past (sort of).
Vinnie Angel 