A Downloader's Diary (45): March 24, 2016
by Michael Tatum
I spent the last few months simmering in my latest, and I imagine
final, annual mid-life crisis. I resolved it by, among other things,
getting my driver's license, not to mentioning immersing in music. My
lesson: getting older can be fun, provided you can do it as gracefully
as Bonnie (66), Willie (82), or Kenny (56). If only Elton (68) was as
spry and lively as he was on his karaoke drive with James Corden. With
even more material in the can than this installment, loaded with good
stuff and short on the stuff you should avoid, I'll see you again in
about six weeks.
Babyface: Return of the Tender Lover (Def Jam) Back in
the nineties, when I listened to far too much guitar rock for my own
good, I grumblingly acknowledged Kenny Edmonds' clear mastery of
swanky R&B on 1995's The Day, but wondered why he skimped
on the uptempo jams. Twenty plus years later, looking much the
ladykiller in what looks like a corner office at Goldman Sachs, the
most ebullient, outgoing record of his career makes me disappointed
that these nine songs (four with the word "love" in the title) try so
hard to ingratiate themselves -- please tell me he's not filling his
coffers to donate more money to that creep Marco Rubio. But from "your
love is exceptional" to giving his new bride a "standing ovation," no
one else in R&B gets away with this high grade of lover man
bullshit -- he might not be the paragon of monogamy he sells himself
as, but the fact he's devoted an entire career to exploring this
persona says a lot about his character (or portends a future career as
the duped husband in a daytime soap opera). He gives El Debarge a
cameo because he owes him big time. He gives After 7 a cameo because,
well, two of the guys in the band are his brothers. And though I don't
necessarily favor live musicians over synthesizers, in this case it
serves to bolster the warmth that's Kenny's specialty. As for that
absolutely smoking lead guitar, the credit belongs to Michael Ripoll,
whom I'm assuming got the job because Clapton wasn't available.
A MINUS
Erykah Badu: But You Cain't Use My Phone (Motown/Control
Freaq) In which the former Erica Wright gives up astrology
readings and conspiracy theories and returns to her greatest calling:
comedy. Hiring a hapless Drake impersonator for a tribute/parody to
"Hotline Bling," offering up her dee-jaying services for your cousin's
slip-and-slide party, and telling Tyrone if he wants to send a message
to her he needs to teach himself Morse Code for the old
towel-and-campfire trick, she hasn't evinced this much winning
personality since Mama's Gun back in 2000. Trading the
Soulquarians for the samples and synths of producer and fellow Texan
Zach Witness might bum out her neo-soul fanbase, but her music hasn't
been this formed and focused in years. It helps that this is
predominantly made of a well-chosen bunch of idiosyncratic covers --
Usher's "U Don't Have to Call," Ray Parker's re-write of "Please
Mr. Postman" for New Edition, Todd Rundgren by way of the Isley
Brothers, her own "Telephone" from New Amerykah, Pt. 1. The central
conceit of modern day communication is a timely one, and I'm surprised
no one's tried it before -- it reminds of that time my wife and her
Disneyland group met in person for the very first time -- and most of
them spent their time with their heads down, glued to their
cellphones. Badu and babydaddy Andre 3000 teaming up for "Hello it's
Me" is downright magical, especially since I'm left wondering how much
they actually call each other anymore. But please, Erykha: I don't
care how heterosexual you are, don't replace the word "girl" with
"squirrel" ever, ever again. A MINUS
BJ the Chicago Kid: In My Mind (Motown) Like Jason
DeRulo, Bryan James Sledge combines aspects of the boy next door with
the slavering rake, a guy whose response to the old Saturday
Night/Sunday Morning dichotomy is a chorus that goes: "She says she
wanna drink, do drugs, have sex tonight/But I've got church in the
morning/Hopefully we can go to heaven, I pray/Hopefully we can go to
heaven, 'cause I'm stayin'." After years of predators, pricks, and the
usual corporate schtick, I find this an encouraging development. What
mother couldn't adore this R&B dreamboat? He's industrious ("I
wanna work that body like it's a nine-to-five"), respectful of the
opposite sex (though not James Brown, who should get royalties for
"Woman's World"), and has a way with humble ballads ("Fall on my Face"
has the touch of greatness). He even lets his girl Isa get the last
word on "Wait til the Morning," which suggests pre-empting tough
conversations with sex might not be such a hot idea. And since
Sledge's second career (after an abortive beginning with Kanye West)
began with mixtapes, we also get cameos from Chance the Rapper and
Kendrick Lamar, both of whose sixteen bars are always welcome. As for
the meaning of the title, I always thought heart and mind go together
in the spirit of any credible lover man, but here are some words to
live by: "In my mind I am crazy . . . crazy about the right
things. Crazy about the things that could change my life, and honestly
if you ain't crazy about something, I can't rock with you. So at the
end of the day man, get crazy about something."
A MINUS
Hamilton: Original Broadway Cast Recording (Atlantic) As
your friendly neighborhood stickler for detail, I'd like to point out
the paths of Hamilton and his nemesis Aaron Burr didn't cross as often
as much as sextuple threat
lyricist/composer/actor/dancer/singer/rapper Lin-Manuel Miranda would
have you believe -- historically, they didn't become especially
acquainted until they practiced law in New York, which in Broadway
time would put that at the end of act one. Of course, I could also
kvetch Alexander Hamilton wasn't Puerto Rican, Eliza Schuyler wasn't
half-Chinese, and James Madison wasn't Nigerian, and what fun would
that be? Because ultimately, the subtext of a Broadway cast consisting
mainly of people of color reflects Hamilton's deep belief in American
meritocracy, something "the greatest city in the world" (New York
City, by a funny coincidence where this musical plays seven nights a
week) theoretically makes possible, and that Miranda casts white
actors to portray George III and the redcoats opposite his band of
upstarts only underscores the joke. So you bet the New School is one
reason why this original cast recording is such a gas -- my favorite
is Daveed Diggs (half black, half Jewish), who plays the marquis de
Lafayette more broadly and Thomas Jefferson more smugly than they were
in real life, and makes you love it every time he seizes center
stage. Cramming thirty years of history in two-and-a-half hours, I can
forgive these mild transgressions because first, if they aren't always
true to history they are true to human nature, insomuch as Miranda
understands that from battle rapping politicians insulting each other
to push their financial policies to indignant soldiers dueling to
defend their "honor," regardless of the time period, mankind's foibles
are immutable. And second, I'm positive that Hamilton, a destitute
immigrant from the Caribbean island of St. Croix, would completely
sympathize -- of all the founding fathers, he was the only one who
began and ended his political career an unapologetic
abolitionist. Thomas Jefferson, go hang your head, over there in the
corner with Andrew Lloyd-Webber. A
Archy Marshall: A New Place 2 Drown (True Panther
Sounds) Taken out of context, the title would seem to mean the
weeping brook into which Ophelia threw her weedy trophies and herself;
in context, Marshall clarifies with a drawl what he's drowning isn't
himself but his sorrows. But in what, exactly? Oh, the usual things:
sex, drugs, music, J.D. Salinger, a short film, and a classy tome of
poetry/sketches/photographs curated by his brother Jack, not
necessarily in that order. I don't recommend this approach as a life
strategy -- believe me Archy, I was young once, too -- but I can't
deny its seductiveness entrenched in music this haunting, compelling,
cerebral, and sexy. In fact, though some claim this is some weird
strain of indie rock (a la Deerhunter on Halcyon Digest) or
punk jazz (James Chance was never this loose), I myself couldn't nail
any antecedents other than Tricky, so you can imagine my shock when
instead of a scowling Black Briton with asthma problems, Marshall
turned out to be a skinny urchin who looks like Rupert Grint's
malnourished kid brother. His slack jawed, nick-your-trainers baritone
is far better suited to these stoned beats and phantasmagoric keyboard
lines than they ever were to the more straightforward
singer-songwriter-with-guitar moves of his former identity as King
Krule, as well as his free associative verse, which mostly concerns
the usual post-adolescent sexual resentment no matter how much he
hides it behind Barry White and cornball BBC sitcoms. Also like
Tricky, he seems to relish juxtaposing sticky sexual details ("Locked
in blood, gunk, fluids and mixtures/Of sweat, grease chicken, beef and
love leaking stitches") with tributes to his mum, who in Archy's case
lives down the hall. Yeah, that's right, down the hall -- you can see
her in that short film. No wonder the kid's love life sucks.
A MINUS
Willie Nelson: Summertime: Willie Nelson Sings Gershwin
(Legacy) Not that Stevie Wonder and Paul Simon weren't deserving
of being canonized by the Library of Congress, but Willie Nelson is
the Gershwin Prize's most spiritually appropriate recipient. Thought
for much of the sixties to be out of touch with the country mainstream
with his unusual vocal phrasing -- either jumping ahead or lagging
behind the beat, many complained -- he later revealed the source of
his unique style with the 1978 album Stardust, which made clear his
debts both to the Tin Pan Alley songwriting tradition and the great
pop and jazz singers that staked their reputations by endlessly toying
with it. Nelson has dabbled in his penchant for standards many times
since -- with the glut of old fogeys indulging in them, it's almost
been a commercial necessity -- but this is one is special for two
reasons. First, because it features Nelson's touring band, led by his
pianist sister Bobbie and who probably have had these songs ingrained
in their DNA for years. Second, because not only is Willie's wry,
poignant, playful baritone made for George's tunes and rhythms, but
his yearning brings depth to Ira's lyrics on material you thought had
been plumbed to the ocean floor. In fact, my only complaints are the
duets: Sheryl Crow on "Embraceable You" (passable -- did you know she
was once an elementary school teacher?) and Cyndi Lauper on "Let's
Call the Whole Thing Off" (in which she crosses Blossom Dearie with
the mad woman in the attic in Jane Eyre). Elsewhere, this is a
delightful treasure trove for those on the younger side of your humble
downloader's mid-life crisis. For those on the older side, you're
probably wondering: do I need yet another version of "Summertime?" You
betcha. A
Bonnie Raitt: Dig in Deep (Redwing) I would like to
credit Bonnie's best since 1991's Luck of the Draw to the crisp
self-production -- incredibly, the first time she's manned the boards
on her own in her forty-five year recording career. But really, I'm
just glad she dismissed Joe Henry, who co-helmed 2012's Grammy-winning
(i.e.: zzzz) Slipstream. In truth, Bonnie has aligned herself
with several top notch producers over the years, but Don Was and the
team of Mitchell Froom/Tchad Blake had their names on winners as often
as they did outright losers. So as always, you can boil success down
to songs, some written by the artiste, some by hired guns, and all
about "love" except a poignant ballad about her father and an
anti-banking song even droller than Boz Scaggs' ("I'm here to tell you
your sicken loan is coming due," right on, sister). Except these are
the kind of love songs you remember, not merely because of memorable
tunes per se -- although there are plenty of those to go around -- but
because rather than muddle about in romantic vagaries, each lyric
focuses on a specific aspect of a relationship dynamic. It's an
unintended consequence of love. I would have lied, but I couldn't lie,
'cause I knew. I'm all alone with something to say. Never could have
guessed it, best friends since we were kids, but now I lose it every
time that you're near. With articulate, punchy solos from Bonnie and
the band a given, you're probably wondering if she's come up with a
more left field cover than the last outing's Gerry Rafferty. So I
direct you to her startling take on INXS's "Need You Tonight," the
original of which always reminded of the Doors -- sex as a crude art
pose, or an avenue to score a top ten hit. Both noble endeavors, I
say. But Bonnie delivers it like she wants you to hop under the covers
pronto. Guess which version is more convincing. A
Rihanna: Anti (Westbury Road Entertainment/Roc Nation)
For four years in a row, from 2009 to 2012, Robin Fenty released an
album for the Christmas buying season -- a pretty much unheard of
level of productivity that struck me less as Beatles-Stones level
inspiration and more assembly line workaholicism. Which isn't to say I
didn't enjoy her singles along with everybody else, but how else are
you going to sell records if you don't have a few of those coming off
the presses? Then she took a breather, for aesthetic reasons I would
assume as well as personal ones, and her reward is her most satisfying
long player. No hit singles here, and the album has underwhelmed
sales-wise, but that's the price she pays for the independence she
claims for herself in lyrics after lyric, and if this isn't as amazing
as the Beyonce album that many silly people think isn't as good as
Beck's dreary Mourning Face (or whatever it's called), the
artiste, well, isn't Beyonce. Give her credit, however, for jumping on
the Kanye West bandwagon, joining the growing cadre of hip hop artists
who are using their power and clout for creativity rather than sinking
into a morass of complacency. Skipping out the dance floor to the
chill out room, this sounds like it could be a Massive Attack or
Tricky record, with nods to Stevie Wonder, Al Green, and, er, Tame
Impala, and finally this Barbados native's dancehall moves are organic
rather than contrived. And though the bad girl act does get wearying,
finally she's unpacking the psychology that fuels it -- "There ain't
nothing here for me/But I don't want to be alone," or the sadly
knowing "Tryna fix your inner issues with a bad bitch/Didn't they tell
you I was a savage?" I'm sure there a lot of naïve young people who
would describe the stoned brag about how "amazing" she's in bed as
"sex positive" or some nonsense like that, but until now it never
occurred to me how many victims of abuse often suffer from the
insecurity that they're only worth a damn in bed. And if you think I'm
being puritanical, I never get that feeling with Beyonce, who also
offers up far juicier conjugal details. Sure Re, white knights are an
icky, codependent lot. But that only means you're selling what he's
desperately buying, and your folly is no less
tragic. A MINUS
Rokia Traoré: Né So (Nonesuch) The titular concept
("Home") signifies differently to a diplomat's daughter than than it
does to a Tuareg nomad, even if they are both angry at the same
religious fundamentalists that have taken that concept away from them
-- do the guys in Tinariwen split their time between Bamako, Paris,
and Marseille? Not to downplay their respective struggles, but the
difference is between an upper middle class feminist who has the
freedom to do and express whatever she wants, and a single working
class mom stuck in two dead end jobs barely scraping by raising her
two kids. Traoré's music has always been "beautiful," sometimes even
compelling, but what it doesn't have is urgency, something you can't
say about most other Malian musicians. With John Parish once again in
the producer's seat, the interweaving guitar lines and tricky time
signatures are about as close as African music gets to art rock, and
even if it's more heartfelt, it's also the music of privilege. Like
2013's Beautiful Africa, this starts strong and winds down,
especially tripping when she translates her one-world banalities to
English or cedes platitude duties to Devendra Barnhart. The apotheosis
of all this is covering "Strange Fruit" in 2016, rather than hiring a
rapper to drop some knowledge down about Ferguson: conservatory
protest past its sell-by date rather than righteous dissent in the
current moment. I can't deny this record's prettiness, even in its
most languid moments -- but she could be moaning about the pleasures
of gardening or home cooking and we would be none the
wiser. B PLUS
The Velvet Underground: The Complete Matrix Tapes
(Polydor) If the sixties was the greatest decade for rock and
roll, how come it produced so few worthwhile live albums? Between weak
performances, subpar recording technology, and Berry Gordy's unceasing
desire to cram his flagship acts into dinner jackets for gigs at the
Copa, classics on the order of Live/Dead and the Beatles' Live at the
Hollywood Bowl are few and far between. It says something that the
only three artists who have multiple live albums worth attending to --
we'll leave the Dead out of this -- are Hendrix, James Brown, and the
Velvets, all of whom evolved aesthetically from album to album, toured
to death, and never failed to give their fans more than rote
recitals. This four-disc bonanza, which would have been deemed an
"event" back when people gave a shit about CDs and would have been
priced twice as much its $29.98 retail, documents two nights from the
band's intermittent month-long residency at San Francisco's Matrix
Theatre -- November 13th-15th declares the original ticket (Barry "Eve
of Destruction" McGuire a few days later!), but recorded on the 26th
and 27th according to the slug on the cover. Does any sane person
really need four versions of "Heroin," totaling about forty minutes?
Does "Sister Ray" keep the orgy going for thirty-seven? You bet. And
oh, the revelations! For minimalists, they never executed a song the
same way twice, and weren't above stretching out not unlike their
supposed polar opposites in the Dead -- the fagged-out ennui Lou Reed
masters in the slowed-down versions of "Sweet Jane" and "I'm Waiting
for the Man" has been imitated to the point of parody, but never
equaled. Doug Yule emerges as the greatest noise-rock organist of the
decade. And guitar, guitar, more guitar. I once thought I could hear
the riff of "What Goes On" ad infinitum -- or at the very least, for
nine minutes. Turns out I was right. A MINUS
Kanye West: The Life of Pablo (Def Jam/G.O.O.D. Music)
Acts of insanity should be judged by their circumstances and levels of
aforethought. If I were to bum rush Taylor Swift during her acceptance
speech at the MTV Video Music Awards because I thought Beyonce
deserved to win for "Single Ladies," I could easily dismiss it in a
week and blame it on booze, nerves, or the rush of the moment. This
mixtape cum cris de cerveau and the Twitter meltdown leading up to and
away from it are in a different realm of lunacy
altogether. Rearranging titles and track listings from day to day,
rationalizing a lay with Taylor Swift because "I made that bitch
famous," comparing his marriage to Kim Kardashian to the trials of the
biblical Mary and Joseph, fretting whether that Tribeca model's
asshole-bleaching might stain his shirt, or completely yanking his
latest opus from Tidal (its only outlet!) after a mere twenty-four
hours, he's pushing buttons to see how far he can go, then retreating
into his shell when the politically correct wing of the internet
spanks him for his transgressions. When he short-circuits after
skipping a few Lexapro doses, I really feel for him -- the dude needs
a better psychiatrist, one who does more than introducing him to
patients with the hip hop equivalent of a screenplay to sell. Not
unlike his buddy Paul McCartney -- strangely absent from the
proceedings -- West recycles motifs and unused fragments in the
time-honored side-two-of-Abbey-Road fashion, and it completely suits
both the tortured subject matter and the artiste's angst-ridden
mindset. The "real" album will supposedly come out this summer. I'll
believe it when I hear it. It may be "superior" in quality -- but it
won't be nearly as revealing. A MINUS
Honorable Mentions
Tricky/Skilled Mechanics: Skilled Mechanics (False
Idols) Trust me Adrian, forgive your Dad -- it'll be good for your
art ("Hero," "Boy") ***
Future: EVOL (Epic/Freebandz/A1) "Your Honor: Exhibit
A: on track two he boasts about how he wants to forcibly put his
genitals in my mouth" ("The Program," "Xanny Family") **
Lyrics Born: Real People (Mobile Home) Killer music
and unassailable flow, but the meatiest lyric is a mother-in-law
lament not quite as funny as Ernie K. Doe's ("Holy Matrimony," "Chest
Wide Open") **
David Bowie: ★ (Columbia) Contemplating scary
monsters (Death) and super creeps (Thom Yorke?) ("Lazarus," "★")
**
Lucinda Williams: The Ghosts of Highway 20 (Highway
20/Thirty Tigers) Not even God would go on about "Faith and Grace"
for twelve endless minutes ("Place in my Heart," "Dust") *
Pinegrove: Cardinal (Run For Cover) Evan Stephens
Hall does indeed have more soul and brains than Robin Pecknold, but
doesn't everyone? ("Then Again," "New Friends") *
Trash
El Guincho: Hiperasia (Nacional) Supposedly inspired by
the eclectic music played in the Hiper Asia chain of Chinese bazaars
Pablo Díaz-Reixa frequented in Madrid, GOOD AFTERNOON SHOPPERS AND
WELCOME TO HIPERASIA [*Berryz Kobo on the intercom] Chinese broccoli
on sale this week for a 1.1 Euros a pound, Kenji cleanup on aisle
fifteen, would you like to sample the new Sangria-flavored Ramune GOOD
AFTERNOON SHOPPERS AND WELCOME TO HIPERASIA how fresh is this tuna [
. . . ] wouldyoulikepaperorplasticwiththat I'm sorry we only have the
narrow rice noodles excuse me I need to get into this aisle [ . . . ]
Aquí está su cambio, Señor GOOD AFTERNOON SHOPPERS AND WEL
B MINUS
Jeremih: Late Nights (Def Jam) Like most English majors,
I have a deep appreciation for dirty talk, and in rock and roll as in
literature, there's a gold standard: Marvin Gaye and Madonna, Prince
and Liz Phair. The four of them have something in common, which is the
knowledge that the genitals don't get aroused by manual stimulation
alone -- you also have to move the heart and/or spark the brain. For
example, Prince Charles' desire to be reincarnated as his beloved's
tampon disgusts not because of the literal reality of the metaphor,
but its dunderheaded banality -- this is the woman that gets you
hotter than Diana and that's your best come hither? Hailing from the
same city as the far sweeter BJ the Chicago Kid, journeyman R&B
mack daddy Jeremy Felton likewise can't tell the boudoir from the
locker room -- laying down an offer to join the Mile High Club,
comparing her vaginal juices to Crown Royal Regal Apple, sticking his
finger in her ass without buying her a nice dinner first, or coaxing
J. Cole to spit a couplet about how his dick is so big it'll feel like
"a foot in your mouth," these are the puerile sexual fantasies of a
smug dimwit whose marijuana brag -- I can't get over this -- actually
references Ray-J's "I Hit it First," his infamous
yes-but-I-made-a-sextape-with-her reminder to Kanye West. And, if I
may indulge myself in a little semantics, he confuses the concepts of
"climate" and "weather" like a goddamn Fox News meteorology "expert."
He needs that gaggle of pinch-hitting rappers to distract from his
mundanity, and none do him any favors. As for dull beats, I'm betting
it's part of his end game -- putting her to sleep as a prelude to
sticking it in seems about his speed. C PLUS
Elton John: Wonderful Crazy Night (Island) First of all,
shut your goddamn mouth -- back when I was a kid and this guy pounded
the 88s in a Donald Duck suit, he was my hero. Even as a five-year-old
I knew that the first side of Caribou rocked and the second was lame,
so when Sir Reg's press machine promised us an album solely of uptempo
rock and roll, I remember nodding off through the maudlin Peachtree
Road material ten years ago at Cox Cable arena, telling myself "Love
Lies Bleeding" and "Rocket Man" would be in the second half of the
show. So fuck naivety: I crossed my fingers and hoped for the
best. Except this isn't 1974 -- a lot has happened to Elton since
then: The Lion King, electric pianos, vocal nodules, tours with Billy
Joel. And, I would also argue, AIDS benefits, Ryan White, coming out
of the closet, Princess Diana's death, sponsoring Eminem's sobriety,
marriage and kids. In other words, he's "matured" enough so that he
thinks his fans don't expect product from him, they expect
significance. Unfortunately for Elton, he's always left significance
to Bernie Taupin, whose lyrics were inconsistent even at Elton's peak,
and were almost always mush whenever he aimed for depth or
candor. Especially in the team's vaunted "assembly line" mode, many of
their best moments were tossed off -- the buoyantly light doggerel of
"Solar Prestige a Gammon," the catty "The Bitch is Back," the
committed-but-to-what anthem "Philadephia Freedom." This begins with a
hopping-bopping ditty that makes "Crocodile Rock" sound like "Search
and Destroy" and read like "All the Young Dudes." Later, it "peaks"
with a hoary paean to lost bluesman Utah Smith, who deserves more than
a lyric that romanticizes his "old Gibson" but delivers T. Bone
Burnette's sanitized production values. Personal to Elton: bring back
Ann Orson and Carte Blanche. Now those were some
lyricists. C
Milk Teeth: Vile Child (Hopeless) I'm intrigued by
the notion that England is warming to the notion of American indie
rock -- even if it's twenty, thirty years too late -- but key touches
like amateurish singing, alternate tunings, and dodgy production
values are beyond them. I imagine this quartet gets ink because
they're actually two bands in one -- or were, since Josh Bannister
left three weeks before this was released. I say good riddance --
sounds like he wanted the band to emulate the Melvins. That leaves the
more interesting Becky Blomfield, who I bet thinks Linda Perry sold
out when she started working with Pink. C PLUS
Note: El Guincho review includes two chunks of Chinese
characters which cannot be represented using the current character
set. Some day we'll grow up and switch to UTF, but not right now.
The David Bowie album/song is otherwise known as Darkstar.
Also not in the character set, but easier to work around.
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