This album blazed onto the scene in a shower of circular saw sparks, chewed up the insipid chart rap, soul and funk-rock which was prevalent (then as now) and shoved what it spat out into the faces of Radio One listeners and Word viewers everywhere.

The Disposable Heroes were, essentially, ex-Beatnig Michael Franti, engineer Mark Pistel, and angle grinder Rono Tse — and they had come to return rap music to its true path (as Melle Mel put it, one year earlier, on Tackhead’s ‘See The Fire Burning’: “At one time rap music was about saying something that was socially-conscious and making certain statements that were positive and that were meaningful to the youth of the world. But right now ain’t nobody cares how the youth of the world is growing up, as long as they’ve got a gold chain and some Adidas”), whilst broadening its horizons at the same time.

Franti’s previous group, the Beatnig’s, had already started exploring new territory — refusing to be railroaded into the same MTV pen as their peers. Their album was released on Jello Biafra’s Alternative Tentacles records, and somehow managed fit snugly amongst the label’s disparate hardcore ranks (which included Nomeansno, DOA, Alice Donut and (of course) the Dead Kennedys and its many side-projects). The original version of ‘Television’, the single which would later launch the Heroes onto Radio One, also appeared here as a Beatnigs’ 12″.

(NOTE: If rap music leaves you cold (as it does me, in the main) then forget I’ve mentioned it — just for now.)

The Heroes did not just have one message, they had an album full of them — but a way to deliver them, ease them into your consciousness, that was at once smooth but also Rock. ‘Satanic Reverses’ showed the Banks to be our new churches; ‘Famous and Dandy’ reflected the depths to which blacks famous and infamous had sunk to gain identity (“…my pockets so empty I can feel my testicles, ’cause I spent all my money on some plastic African necklaces…”); ‘Television, The Drug of the Nation’ was self-explanatory (“…imagination is sucked out of children by a cathode ray nipple…”). On and on through High School bullying, the Gulf War, pollution, mixed-race identity, and lots of politics. Heavy stuff, yeah. But, hey, some mofo has to speak out.

The music is full, fat and pumping — the perfect backing to Franti’s intense (but sometimes quite laid back) verbal-bonings. The samples and drum loops are all inspired and crucial, and the live instrumentation is top notch (check out Charlie Hunter’s guitars on ‘Music and Politics’ and ‘Water Pistol Man’). All moods are evoked with minimum effort but maximum effect — I defy you to sit still during the unfeasibly bouncy title track. Occasional rare moments of beauty shine forth from the assault, as on the touching acoustic jazz track ‘Music and Politics’ (“If ever I would stop thinking about music and politics, I would tell you that music is the expression of emotion, and that politics is merely the decoy of perception”), and the deeply provocative closing number ‘Water Pistol Man’ (“Water pistol man, full of ammunition, squirting out fires on a world wide mission/But did you ever think to stop and squirt the flowers in your own backyard…”).

Between the two we have the Heroes tribute to their Alternative Tentacles “inspirator” Jello Biafra — a cover of ‘California Uber Alles’ which samples the original but drags it into the nineties kicking, screaming and kicking. And then kicking some more. If you ever thought rap could not Rock (and, no, RunDMC meeting Aerosmith does NOT count), then listen to this. The Heroes performed this track live on The Word, complete with power tools and more energy than a truckful of Lucozade — and that performance still remains one of the defining moments of the early nineties, at least to me.

This album deserves a chance, even if you have a problem with rap. Give it a chance, and I’m more than confident that it will earn a worthy place in your CD collection. I know it still manages to Rock my world.