The pushing and pushing to keep searching, keep coming up with new ways to inform, read and understand music, is one that’s always going to be there, one way or another. Here, we have 6 more albums to talk about, all landmarks of the year for different reasons. The variety will always fascinate and enthrall me; I hope it does you too.
Post Malone - Twelve Carat Toothache (pop)
The reason Post Malone made a good album, for the fourth time now, is different than the last 2 times. Superstar mode Post Malone, the one with beerbongs & bentleys and the (worse) Hollywood’s Bleeding basically meant that he could gloat as much as he wanted, and he could get away with it. That’s kinda what you do when you’re on top of the world. Twelve Carat Toothache is Post far away from that status. His moment passed, others have played with his sound and exhausted it for the media, and now, he’s here, he’s having hits, there’s still money behind him, but to the general public, he’s lost it. He’s got a great, lengthy set of greatest hits that will carry him through the rest of his career, but this is the starting point of the steps downwards. It also happens to be the moment where Post himself isn’t keen on being the established hit-making machine he was primed to be, and aims for different, more atmospheric, outright dour moments. But he just can’t do that so easily - he’s Post Malone! The deal with the devil’s been set, but now he doesn’t want to play the part. And so, you fight.
A lot of times on this album, he fails. The budget isn’t what it was, and Post still aims for certain ideas that are just passé by this point. Unsurprisingly, the hits are the worst here. Bringing in Roddy Ricch (a star that faded way faster than anyone thought) for “Cooped Up” was an easy move, but he’s lost his mojo, and can’t elevate Louis Bell’s hazy atmosphere, and Post tries to be comedic in a way he can’t pull off when he spends most of this album in downbeat mode. “I Like You (A Happier Song)” is probably great background music for 30-second cookie recipes, but its sterile bubblegum aspirations make it so you could make it through both Post and Doja Cat’s massive catalogs and completely skip this one. And “One Right Now” with the Weeknd, tailored in at the end of the album with no shame, just sucks from start to finish: wimpy bass, a high-note main melody that suits neither singer and then just sort of concludes, the entire sound is so dry it doesn’t fit in with the rest of the album’s reverb-soaked production. You can practically handpick these, see how they’d fit into radio formats, for the most part be right, and then move on.
Not that this means that these are isolated problems, and once you remove those specific songs, you have a full album of quality. For the most part, Twelve Carat Toothache is severely lacking in many areas. A lot of songs that can or should have bigger production to make up for the grand ambiance (“When I’m Alone”, “Love/Hate Letter to Alcohol”) often feel very hollow, losing some of the drive intending to push them forward. Many of the real stupidly heavy amount of features here are pointless: Gunna on “I Cannot Be (A Sadder Song)” feels uninspired in a year where he’s been artistically shining, and “Wasting Angels” has a Kid LAROI verse that comes and goes and you somewhat don’t notice, since his voice timbre is near identical to Post’s. All of these are good songs - some of them, even highlights - but they never feel they reach their ultimate potential, and the sour tone of the album feels more shallow than it should as a result.
But, again, we’re dealing with struggle, with an artistic struggle. Post’s intentions are that of the more obscure, hidden-in-the-night persona, one that yells out to have no one listening. This is probably as close as Post has gotten to a pity party of sorts, if only because the time to brag has passed him, so now it’s mainly wallowing. And when he does feel like bragging and puffing up, it’s disturbingly nonchalant, casual, non celebratory. I wouldn’t call “Insane” a highlight, but it’s an interesting (albeit unintentional) commentary on how Post’s trap formula has gotten old and against the times. The entry to the second verse (“Second verse, second verse, yay / Second verse, second verse, again”) is worrying, but the way he sings the chorus: “I'm a bachelor, I'm a bastard, hey / Don't believe me? You can ask her, hey”, with such blatant disinterest, brushing everything off, a shrug that acknowledges none of this means anything. It’s not a moment of pride or pettiness, it’s boredom. I’m glad it’s the one song on here that attempts to do that; if there were more, it’d be too one-note. But he takes his rap persona, one that was already getting tiresome, and rips it of any glamor in basically a couple of lines.
The rest of the album is a detailing of how low Post’s mentality can go, and how much the powers that be will allow him to do so. They’ll enable his drinking, his irresponsibility, his rampant loss in this world, as long as he turns them into hits. But these aren’t hits. Maybe “Wrapped Around Your Finger” could have a small radio run, but the pad synth makes it feel too bedroom pop-like, and Post digs into the more subdued parts of his singing; the hooks don’t come across so bluntly, even though they’re there. “When I’m Alone” has the best hook on the album, but it’s one of his most acidic songs so far, where she catches him cheating on her, and his resolution is a peppy, sardonic “Livin’ in a hotel, livin’ in a hotel” bridge that, as much as I love it (“Ain’t that bad, I got room service!” is an immaculate shrug), is too pushy for mass consumption. “Euthanasia” is one that digs into the deathly in a way that Post never did this blatantly, and we have a moment of vocoder backing vocals lining up for a sinister end, without residing. It’s merely tragic in the shape of a pop song, with an air that indicates this is a death in public, everyone around him without realizing.
The two biggest challenges on the album are right next to each other, kinda like centerpieces from different sides. Featuring indie folk band Fleet Foxes, “Love/Hate Letter to Alcohol” is one of Post’s darkest incursions into the night, where he details a brutal beatdown where he ends up on the ground, with nothing to show for himself but scars. The mixing, again, is too sparse to ground anything in something concise, and Post’s lyricism was never top notch (did he have to drop the title? And in the chorus, of all places?), but Louis Bell produces his vocals (and Robin’s) with a sense of urgency, and Post digs deeper into his broken mentality in a way that leaves no final resolution. The other one, the ethereal “Wasting Angels”, is much better. It also falls a little short: LAROI’s presence, again, adds nothing; and the main line of the song is “Oh, oh, this life is crazy”, which is a real jarring copout. But it’s a 4-minute epic with no drums, a real bold move, and Louis Bell takes out his real arsenal: ambient pop synths recalling Badalamenti and Moby, moving with precision through scared thoughts and a kind of bliss that gets eclipsed by an invasive choir. Post carries real melodies to calm himself down (“I just need a lil' somethnnn' get me through (!) the day”), and his rough voice generates uneasiness in the calm sea of synths in his backing vocals. The final third, with a gospel choir, just keeps repeating, “I should listen to you now, if I never have”, and it feels like there’s someone else outside of Post and LAROI in the picture for the first time. As isolated as they feel, they know someone else is waiting for them, and the response may snap them out of their bliss.
It may feel I’m giving this album too many breaks, and that’s because I am. For many reasons, too. For one, this album is a failure, in the sense that it’s commercially successful enough for the industry to keep Post around, but not enough to give him the leeway he used to have; I get the feeling he’s going to be on a much tighter leash next time, and it’s always worth rooting for the underdog, especially when the underdog once had the world in the palm of his hand. But also, if this is going to be his last unrestrained hurrah, it’s worth celebrating that Post, at his best, even on this album, is one of the big pop artists with a shocking amount of unpredictability. Unpredictability, more specifically, as a vocalist. Hence, I saved the two real highlights on Twelve Carat Toothache, the ones that would make a case for truly being among Post’s best, for last.
“Reputation” is a really startling opener for a mainstream album. It always intrigues me when upbeat pop artists kick off their albums with a ballad (Nicki Minaj’s “All Things Go”; Ariana Grande’s “imagine”), and this reverb piano downer is a moment of nakedness, both lyrical and physical. The barren structure where the next section could be a chorus or another verse or something else, and Post faces his fame demons with fear and anger. “You’re the superstar, enterTAIN AUUUGHHS” is sung without trying to harken back to the Nirvana hit, and what’s left is the facing towards his audience. “I betrayed us! …But us don’t give a fuck” is tossed off, but it may be the most unintentionally insightful lyric he’s ever written. The ‘bridge’ of sorts, when he starts listing everything pierces in on his vibrato and a different, more jaded kinf of self-loathing appears. He sings, “I was bohhhrn to fuck hoes, I was bohhhrn to fuck up”, but he sings “up” and it sounds like “God”. It’s a defiance to something he can’t stand up to. His vocal physicality presents him with something where every fight he puts up, and there are plenty of those, feels like a failed one (“I got a repuTAtion that I can’t denyyy”). Here we have a fallen icon.
“Lemon Tree” is not as good. Post’s lyricism fails him again; the main concept of the song is how everyone seems to be doing better than him (hence the title), but he builds up on it with “Some people got an apple, some people got a tangerine”, and the metaphorical becomes stupidly literal. Also, “In every film I watch, I’m on the side of the bad guy” like that’s anything insightful - that’s all of us, buddy. And Louis Bell brings in this dorky synth in the chorus that kind of takes you out of it. But in a pop landscape where every big artist always sounds like they have everything rehearsed, Post’s vocal performance of trembling vibrato feels appropriate, until it stops. He twists certain words, like “too” (“rotten tojgho”), for something more sinister. But the line before the chorus, “So turn around, and show me that I’m better” is showstopping: that “better” is sung with both a twang and a spit - “show me that I’m batuehr” - and something crystalizes, like he just noticing it while he was recording it: crippling doubt in front of a building, words dropping into folded cement, a stab where something grows inside, the anger of the fact that the path you chose got you here, and got you this. I’ve heard that “batuehr” over and over since it came out, and the second time that word pops up, in the chorus, “I'm gonna burn it down, and grow me somethin' bethhrh”, with that word now grimy and furious, with that indication of conviction that needs to rise because it has no other option, is powerful and striking. It’s the kind of realization that should lead towards a better change, that can’t stay still the way it is. It’s a millisecond, but it’s one of clarity. Fucking fight.
Kabza De Small - KOA II Part 1 (amapiano)
As an outsider - and I do feel it’s important to state that; I’m from Argentina, and I’m talking about South African house music - this only partially threw me in for a loop. Amapiano records in general tend to feel quite daunting, considering their lengths, their heavy features, and the overall sound threatening to start running together by the end. That last part is half the reason house music in general isn’t an ‘album genre’, and the most acclaimed bodies of work tend to be EPs, DJ mixes or outright compilations. That’s part of the reason why I stick to the guts of these producers, like Kabza De Small (or Sun-El Musician or Native Soul), for making albums that very much rely on simple house structures, a bunch of added vocalists, and grooves that go past the 6 minute mark basically without ever stopping. KOA II Part 1, Kabza De Small’s sequel to I Am the King of Amapiano: Sweet & Dust (a 3-hour long project), features 18 tracks and is 2 hours and change long. As a starting point for the genre, it’s as reliable as any of his other projects, since what we’re seeing here is a producer at his prime overthrown by his many ideas, submitting them to as much clarity and focus as they need.
Motha helped assimilate the amapiano genre to a sort of wholesome completion, and that flies all across this album. The sound is a combination of the derivations of deep house that found themselves with South African rhythms, with a focus less on the thriving dance beats, more on the spare, jazzy chords that could come closer to a sort of exotica lounge sound (‘amapiano’ in Zulu translates to ‘pianos’). The style feels simple, but you can tell he puts in a lot of work to make the songs sound distinct. He can’t help falling into some old habits - there’s one that particularly annoys me, which is the rising cymbal to build up tension that leads to… the same beat as before; it’s on every song, and it’s pointless. But that’s what happens when you’re working on a budget, and the entire sound construction is synthesized. With that in mind, given how flat everything could sound, there are so many embellishments that make this whole album worth a couple of tries.
For starters, he’s got more than enough backup to get him through the shiny beats that indicate a calm kind of nighttime, or even sunset. Voices like Nicole Elocin give a dreamlike vibe to “Ngyamthanda”, with a different feeling from the more melancholic Phila Dlozi to bring in some more tension. Nobuhle’s ruminations over a filtered log drum on “Bawo” bring in a careless kind of melody, where her harmonies go up and down simultaneously, and never seem that interested in giving out a concrete answer to her helplessness - and, in a fun shift, the song keeps growing through sitars and tubas in the background. The different party voices on “Eningi” make it feel as though a religious singalong in the middle of nowhere (could be a a fireside, or icelandic woods), all while a squiggly guitar moves through and a sampled voice goes “Oeuh”, to reference the ridiculous that is reaching the heavens.
The robotic bass can also bounce alongside the voices in a way that makes for intriguing, yet intensely catchy moments. Isolated tones of “Rekere 2” pass alongside the paddy percussion, and a deep synth bass comes in, like an alternate version of a lighter dance track. And Stakev’s presence, with whispering voices coming from all angles (and whistles every 2 or 3 beats), makes you feel cornered, haunted by distant ghosts that probably have and want nothing to do with you, and they don’t leave even when the track becomes a lounge piece. On the other end of the spectrum, the bass on “Bathini” feels very much underwater, pressed up against something (maybe made of foam), while there’s a more tropical vibe being set, and Young Stunna delivers one of the most straightforward performances here, an anthem to enjoy what’s given and still aim higher. It does feel like that, sometimes.
I hinted at it already, but the moments where the sounds become more obscure, dangerous even, are most of the main highlights of the album. Coincidentally, most of those songs seem to be chock full of artists chiming in. An example is “Mshini”, where Young Stunna (in one of his 4 appearances on this album), Lady Du, Bob Mabena and Kwesta trade bars on top of an electronic instrumental, with an eerie sound like a despaired ringtone, and the main hook is one carried through with exhaustion and weariness all throughout; it feels like the bright xylophones aren’t enough to bring the light forward. Constant collaborator DJ Maphorisa (who, alongside Kabza De Small, are the Scorpion Kings) comes in for the grimy “Khuluma Imali”, as Toss carries the song through with a fiery tone in his voice that never tires (and is accompanied well by the more mellow Madumane), and their commentary on pointless debauchery sinks the track into a pit only lit by the incessant beat down below, still carrying all the burdens.
Finally, it’s also worth noting the moments of ethereal goals, where a higher ideal of inner peace and contentment are trying to be reached, to see how hard it is to scrape the sky while you’re still awake. The wonderful “Xola”, with the magnificent Nobuhle once again, is backed up by crystal clear synth strings that aim for a slow start to go for something up there; Young Stunna’s presence, more passionate and eager than before, brings the song an extra kick of casualness as to not make it too solemn; like chuckling while staring at the ground, and everyone around you is feeling something. Nia Pearl must also be saluted for “Ubumnandi”, with her nasal tone being carried by girl group-like backing vocals, saluting her every couple of bars, and every melody of hers is potent, and Kabza’s production carries deeper tones than usual, like a race in the dark, to find euphoria in the most obscure places.
The thing with Kabza De Small’s music, as you may have noticed, is that, for as subdued and hushed as it often is, it’s very much one to make up scenarios for. Its specificity and origin can’t be ignored, but that doesn’t mean that it negates the images it evokes. He’s made himself a name as part of a serious movement that’s gotten so many wings, it can’t continue being ignored - not that it ever warranted being ignored, in the first place. This invites not only further relistens, to find new sounds and ideas and images, but also to explore just how much of this is out there, and how much of this there could be. There’s so much already, and yet there’s always the need to expand, as artists like him dive deeper into this sound. ‘Part 1’? Give me as many as you see fit.
Kelly Lee Owens - LP.8 (post-industrial)
In its wake, it’s somewhat catatonic, and also fighting and resisting that very notion. Kelly Lee Owens was never an artist that fully convinced me with her tech house endeavors. I always thought her sonic landscapes were very well made, well constructed, with a lot of air and space for things to move around and create these cold, thorny worlds. But after that admittedly hollow appreciation, I would come to the conclusion that there’s not much else to those worlds - they’re mostly made up of static ideas and tones, that dive into that coldness as an excuse to not develop or grow. The problem was less with the sonics, more with the ideology behind them, which, in turn, also did make it a problem for the sonics. With those thoughts out of my head, it is very rewarding to find an artist realizing those very notions, and challenging them the way she sees fit.
There’s no pop structure or pop hook or pop anything on LP.8. These are ambient constructed, ruminating pieces that try to actively figure out what elements are in them. By being the most introspective album Kelly’s ever made, she’s also made her most curious and active. The sounds here beg for a resolution to see what will come of them, the splashes of piano and record scratches drag themselves out to points where they don’t exactly realize what will follow. The lack of elasticity makes it a tough album to simply put on for fun, but this is begging for more. The sound tinkers with the ideals of noise music, while never exactly being that - it’s, in more ways than one, too afraid to do so. So, it lays on its edges. That’s the space you’d like to explore, right?
The voice is explored on the spiritual successor to “S.O.”, where her ambiance is turned into repeating those scattered melodies that sometimes dissipate (but other times, they don’t), and playing with frequencies that force the mix to adjust itself accordingly. Said moments of beauty are contrasted by “Quickening”, a song just as subdued but much harsher, with little bees in a frowned upon digital space; Kelly’s spoken word is potent, but the whale-like vocals in the second half say so much more than mere words could. “Voice” doesn’t even bother with niceties like ‘words’, instead playing on many vocal layers that point to several things - children playing in the dark, evil laughters, eyes shutting off - in an industrial setting so deserted, yet incessant; it could have been an Aphex Twin circa ‘94 B-side, and I would’ve bought it.
The pieces can keep moving, but they can also explore themselves while laying just about entirely still. “Olga” is centered, quiet, with vocal harmonies that seem to go somewhere safer, but instead are exploring the subwoofer passing through the dark lows, like a digital Antarctica. That’s LP.8 at its most stilted moments, but centerpiece “Anadlu” suggests something different. “Anadlu” is Welsh for “breathe”, and the song plays itself out like a respirator, with different pipes passing through with never a steady beat for them. It slowly grows into a cloudy sky where, while being surrounded by its majesty, you still have to take it one step at a time. It never collides, but it sort of melts into the bright spots, and doesn’t let go of them. 8 minutes fly by, you rarely feel them.
But my, as the album seems to almost give in to a weird kind of sappy with “One”, it jolts itself awake in the final track, “Sonic 8”, and the self-realization that Kelly had to get to finally arrives. The closest thing to a dance beat on this, it features a synth blaring, like an alarm clock, as she fittingly says over and over: “This is an emergency. This is a wake up call”. The stagnation I criticized her of earlier finally dissolves; the spoken word experiments on this very album feel earned and realized; the album is done observing, now it has to move. “What are you gonna do about it?” A demand to action more than a mere call, the fact that it’s not abrasive or loud, for once, means something other than cowardness or unnecessary gentleness for the listener: the problem has been here all along, and sonically it doesn’t need to turn up the volume to make you see that, it just needs to point it out. Things aren’t moving just yet, but this is a warm up.
Zach Bryan - American Heartbreak (country)
He just feels too fresh and too off-the-cuff to be in such a present spotlight, right? It made sense when he was an unsigned singer-songwriter, delving into old-fashioned ways of country music with the zeitgeist of late 2010s lonesomeness, and indeed, his material was top of the line. But let’s address the circumstances: one somewhat viral hit in the shape of the stellar “Something in the Orange”, and Warner gives him enough leeway to make a 34-track long album? And not once is there an industry concession, just a stylistic refilling of his brutal songwriting and one-take-singing mentality, pretty much entirely composed by him alone. Not one compromise to some higher powers? Some tides, maybe even tides so in the back curtain we don’t get to see, are changing. This goes so far beyond being ‘neo traditional’, like some waves of mainstream country have been for the past year, it’s outright the misfit country that gets acclaimed in middle-of-nowhere magazines. Except this is a best-selling album with top 40 hits! Right place, right time, right amount of talent, but this could sharpen up the industry pencil in unpredictable ways.
“Unpredictable”, in the sense that Zach Bryan goes past the notion of a novelty, and stands up to all the standards set to and for him. He’s not playing the game, he’s taking the money and running. He gathers together a small, intimate band, he uses the chords he’s been using his whole life, and up we go for 2 straight hours. As dire as that runtime may sound, you get to know just about all sides of Zach’s way of living. You see the love for the fields and the people and the small towns; you see the alcoholism preying its way into his moments of vulnerability; you see the love for his family, passing through many generations; you see conclusions to failed romances, where the rising of the dirt isn’t enough to surpass the potential defeat. He spits at the cynics, mocks the trend chasers, and packs enough of an earnest mentality for anyone to truly defy him.
The catch is, you do get to know just about all sides of Zach’s way of living… once or twice over. Once the fourth or fifth track about alcohol, or heartbreak, or devotion to love kicks in, some lyrical (and, more tragically, musical) ideas start to repeat themselves in a way that makes the previous iterations feel like demos. You hear similar chords on “Sober Side of Sorry” and “Ninth Cloud”, and many songs will circle back to ideas in ways that suggest less a connective tissue, more a lack of new concepts (on opposite sides of the album, “Younger Years” and “Blue” talk about a “Levi jean queen”). I wouldn’t say that American Heartbreak could benefit from being trimmed, though, because while this may seem like it’s to the album’s detriment, it’s actually a positive: not many songs here stand out as fully realized, so what you’ll get is a lot of scattered moments that make the entire songs worthwhile. In other words, it’s a good thing many of these songs are placed at this moment of his career - if I were to hear half the tracklist here released 2 years later as part of a new album, I’d be a bit more willing to call him artistically stunted.
That’s not the case here at all! Zach and his team make the Americana sizzle of bartender drums, fiddles and swingin’ guitars feel like they’re constantly rotating, like wheels turning. His emoting is one that veers into melodrama, but never fully gets there; he always finds a way to ground his writing in something down to earth, while never too ominous. It’s both the lyrical details as well as the vocal details. His shortage of breath when he’s “sleeping on the floor” on “The Good I’ll Do”, matched with the importance of that someone else saying they’re proud of him. The shuffle of “Highway Boys” that concludes with Zach doing his best “to keep the truth in songs”, and the fiddle in the back might just be that truth. The dream-like guitar of “She’s Alright” that backs up Zach’s resignation of his mother’s death, that turns into a reaffirmation of her presence as the beat becomes steadier (“So look up tonight”, and suddenly there are stars).
The way he can capture the melancholy of old age certainly makes for very moving passages. The idealistic “Someday (Maggie’s)” features some beautiful uncredited female backing vocals, and it’s one that looks to the inevitability of death through the eyes of someone nearing that passage, and looks back at all the regrets and missed opportunities, trying to reckon how little or how much that may matter in the end. In a more blunt way, “Billy Stay” recounts an old marriage as she tries to keep him from slipping away and winds up failing, maybe for the better; “Young kids, good for nothing, but high hoping / Broken, starving plastic ring, perfect for eloping” is a story on its own right (though the song’s final couplet rings a tad extra), and Zach’s rusty voice adds an aching gravitas. He’s keenly aware of how generational patterns can be repeated, and album highlight “Open the Gate” sees a rollicking rock groove and a man attempting there to “prove I'm better than my father was”, and the outlaws rally together for a rodeo to death (like one of the seven circles), and he ends up on the same ditch as his old man. In an album full of bleak moments, this one stands out as going beyond Zach himself.
The fact that he can pair that up with growling songs like “Heavy Eyes” and “Younger Years” makes it all the better. Zach looks to his past while riding through the highway, playing around with his friends and his chosen family, bringing everyone in for homemade parties in the back of some truck. In that sense, it’s admirable that he sees “The Outskirts” as something to aspire to, instead of the big city he lives in. It’s a treat to see how he’ll match up his eagerness for completion and fulfillment on the capricious “Ninth Cloud” (“Had another chance at fittin' in / But fittin' in to kids like me is dyin'!”) with the importance of watching out for one another. He follows up on that too with the next track, “Oklahoma City”, where he offers comfort for an old friend - he doesn’t know what happened to him, maybe good things or bad things, but he’ll still be there, and be blunt: “And often times I pray for you and often times I don’t / Is it the goodbyes that haunt you, or the fear of new hellos?”.
All of these indicators mean that the moments where he delves into his unsolved feelings about his dissolving marriage are going to come through with a bit more carnal intensity to them. The abandon of hit “Something in the Orange” felt more present in the single version, everything felt more hushed and desolate. The album version, however, is a bigger indicator of what Zach intends to do: a blazing wind, fixating into the mundane, and how it disappears alongside the horizon, leaving a trail of forgotten colors. The best line on the thing: “And I'm damned if I do and I'm damned if I don't / 'Cause if I say I miss you, I know that you won't” - she won’t what? Miss him? Say it? If it’s the former, is it because he expressed his sorrow? If it’s the latter, is it because of pride? Where do these feelings reside? Zach doesn’t know where the answer comes from, but he knows the end result, and it’s not pretty.
Early single “From Austin” also taps into the messy feelings of leaving into the unknown, walking away for someone else’s good, but it won’t serve him well (“Repression is my heaven but I'd rather go through hell”); Zach’s partner in crime is the open road, and if he feels left aside, he’ll try his best to be one step ahead, knowing full well he’ll let them down. In a sense, even if it’s early on the album, “Happy Instead” feels like a great relief. A whole song where Zach, once again, is the one left behind, getting angrier for his inability to move on, while she’s doing alright. Then in the final verse, it flips the script to imagine - just imagine - that he could settle down, form a family, while she’s still pining over him. What if he was the winner? Obviously, not the case, but it doesn’t matter. This isn’t a loveless album (or artist) at all. Props to the lovely “Darling”, an understated tune where a line like “Hold me through the shakes” is less a plea, more a singalong giggle, admitting the pain but knowing there’s someone on the other end to comfort him, no matter how present the damage. It goes both ways, too: “And when you wake, you'll still be my darling”, pause, “When you wake, I'm yours to take, darling”.
There’s really no proper place to end this review, since talking about all these songs would prove redundant and somewhat meaningless - I’ve already discussed 15 out of the 34 songs on here, I think you get the picture already. Might be worth highlighting the somber, near gothic-like “Cold Damn Vampires”, the most paranoid song of them all, about leeches (industry and personal) that pursue him all along. While not one of the main keepers of the album (a tad too blunt and plain on the lyrical side), it’s worth noting for how much Zach realizes that the position he’s in, the one that allows him to make an album like this to a general audience, is one that’s very fragile and possibly ephemeral. The wrong turns could devalue him, his art, and what that art stands for. With that in mind, his plight to keep it going his own way - shortly after this, he released an 8-track EP and then a brand new single - is remarkable. He works and thinks through the mind of an eager, filterless Bandcamp artist, with a major label budget, but he’ll only use the resources, not the traditions. He has his own traditions, and his own methods. For that, cheer him on and give him his dues.
Miranda Lambert - Palomino (country)
Well, she’s just about the goddamn queen, right? Admittedly a queen that’s, in the eyes of the industry, entering her post-prime era, about to turn 40. But if country music’s taught us anything, it’s to always keep an eye on those who blazed the road so that others could go forward. And in a strong year for country music, it’s only natural that Miranda Lambert should get her dues. Not since 2005, has she dropped an album that wasn’t up with the best of whatever was going on, both in country music or otherwise. Her traditional lens with a female empowering pathos barreled through the naysayers, and she always kept switching up her sound and looking for new songwriters and producers, practically never staying put in one place. It’s also arguable that, ever since her messy divorce, which brought us 2016’s masterpiece The Weight of These Wings, her sound’s been getting a lot rustier, with more sparse songwriting and a lyrical willingness to settle down. She caused trouble all over many towns, now, let’s see what happens when she’s merely hanging around.
For that, Miranda remains effortlessly cool while strutting around a backroad country that very much feels like her endless porch. She entertains musical ideas, brought to her by co-producers Luke Dick and Jon Randall, like “Country Money”, a ragged guitar tune that struts around all about a hard working woman in the middle of the fields, and turns it into a fun song about a specific kind of mid-American debauchery. She’ll open the album with “Actin’ Up” and have the groove spinning around and reference Billy Idol and Talladega Nights, and she won’t think twice about it; she’ll round it up with a killer hook, so it’ll all come together. Most impressively, she’ll pull the B-52’s themselves out of retirement for a laid back “Music City Queen”, where Miranda seems to live her fantasy of being a Cindy or a Kate (who still nail those harmonies) and playing around with Fred Schneider, one of the best oddball voices out there that hasn’t lost it all (“She’s a showboat baby!”). The B-52’s rollin’ down the river, gotta love it.
I was particularly interested in the reworked tracks on this album from her last album, the outlaw acoustic project alongside Jon Randall (producer of this album) and Jack Ingram, The Marfa Tapes, since that was a kind, gentle delivery of warm tracks being placed in a very delicate setting. 3 of them made it onto Palomino, and only one of them is somewhat defective. The growl of the original “Geraldene”, pissing off a woman who could try to steal her man but Miranda won’t have it, is a bit more restrained with full production, and in a way that makes the “G-G-G-G-Geraldene” vocal run lose its spontaneity. But on the other hand, “In His Arms” was a beautiful track looking for a wider atmosphere, and it’s found here: an early blues guitar lead while the acoustics fill up a calm, but curious ambiance, and Miranda finds more space in the production to let out her calm longing. And “Waxahachie” remains a mid tempo sorrow track, with its regrets and second chances, with a harkening chorus that stretches itself out like an arm “looking for my long, lost friend”. Should there be an ‘immediate’ career highlight on Palomino, it’s this one.
The production in general is one with a lot of plucking guitars that makes this a choppier listen than usual Miranda albums, as if there were different lines of thought colliding. You feel that in the usual moving casualties of “Scenes” and “Strange” that paint scenarios of the different, somewhat forgotten parts of the country, and how Miranda both fits in, yet also doesn’t want to be held back by her age or her wild spirit. That doesn’t faze her too much, though, and her willingness to settle down still means that certain scenes are bound to bewilder her (“It’s times like these make me feel strange”), where the main advice is to hold on to what does make sense. Yet, she also takes her time to fantasize about what it would be, on lead single “If I Was a Cowboy”, a possible “legend at lovin’ and leavin’”, barely even gender flipping, seeing how the cowboy role can apply to anyone who’s free enough to not attach to anything, yet stick to that romantic mindset; all in a windswept composition that still stays grounded in its fantasy, knowing the reality it will return to.
It’s still good to see her natural empathy for those around her has never gone away. She plays the kind lovestruck but cynical people on “That’s What Makes the Jukebox Play”, kind of like a spiritual sequel to Wildcard’s “Dive Bars”, as she takes a step back to see those left behind, yet still going for it despite all reluctance, with a gentle atmosphere that spins like a half-empty dance floor. Ending the album, “Carousel”, a dedication to 2 forgotten trapeze artists, sees that usual acoustic tenderness where every show leaves those inside and outside it with something missing. The feeling of missing something, despite the settling, is mutual; having that as the closer leaves a certain ambiguity as to how content Miranda is with her newfound settling.
Yet, there is a certain irony in settling for always being on the road. It’s that mentality, and that sound, that make her cover of Mick Jagger’s 1993 “Wandering Spirit” as the centerpiece of the album an understandable one in concept, but still a very minor composition that portrays a specific kind of rock n roll decay that Miranda has never fallen into, and she shouldn’t have to (also, 1993 Jagger? Come on). It’s much better explored on “Tourist”, a kind of saddened tribute to her constant moving around, but one that eventually winds up brushing itself off - “So I roam from town to town / Taking snapshots of the world / And I laugh away the lonely / And give a local bar a whirl”. She’s not regretful or remorseful, but she’s aware it’s all that she has. And considering there was a certain firepower in the sound that used to come with this narrative (think “Highway Vagabond”), hearing her sound this stripped back and laid back, it’s as if the acceptance came a long time ago.
If she’s going to keep on riding, by this point, it’s her prerogative. There’s never a moment here of self-pity or self-deprecation, since she knows that these all are choices made by her. The best she can do on this album is try to enjoy it, not get lost in the excesses, and still maintain inspiration for as long as she can. Plus, we know she’ll always be coming back somewhere, and she’ll always have the right kind of support. We’re seeing a legend in action, and that can’t be overstated.
Dimelo Flow - Always Dream (reggaeton)
At these crucial times of reevaluation, reggaeton as a major part in shaping over Western pop music needs to be seen and heard through a noncomformative lens. The bare, isolated notion of reggaeton being mindless baboon music is one that’s barely existent, but still, a certain kind of condescension lingers in the air. And for reggaeton devotees, it’s unwelcome. Reggaeton, once you get down to the roots of it, like you would just about all dance music out there, is about communication: it’s about lost souls trying to linger into one moment of connection, or something-like-connection, amidst the steady beat and the neon lights. The connection doesn’t even have to be physical; perreo can be a sentiment that’s passed throughout. The masculinity that’s plagued the genre since its inceptions needs to be turned around to realize a different kind of longing, one that - bare with me - assimilates a particular queer coding. The howlings, the electronic blending all voices into chants and calls-and-responses, the endless 3-3-2 that passes on wishing to collide and expand, the hurt of knowing it can all be ephemeral. Everyone can connect with it, but it’s the misfits, the ones in the back, the ones who can’t dance, who will hear something different, a radiant frequency that indicates what’s thought of as forbidden. Why would we always shake to the same beat, anyway, if we could find what we were looking for?
Dímelo Flow has been primordial for crafting a particular sound of reggaeton that dials back on the electronic-crazed maximalism of the early-to-mid 2010s, and instead focuses all for low lights, a hanging atmosphere of sleepy tones and a lot of unused space, and so dialed back that it could be turned into a whisper. He’s not like Tainy, because Tainy will focus on accentuating that empty space to create wider, digital angles to allure some kind of downbeat darkness. Dímelo Flow’s style is more straightforward, but just as innovative: what’s small remains small. It never gets reverbed, or soaked into being brighter - everything stays just as is. His production is stasis, not stagnation, that sees how much the dembow led dance floor can imitate the movements of nighttime. And so, we’re meant to worship the small, since the sensuality can’t be broadened. We sit with our fears, and they give us a lap dance.
What looked to be the apex of his sound was 2019’s The Academy, a supergroup endeavor by Sech, Dalex, Lenny Tavarez, Feid and Justin Quiles. 7 tracks where all 5 of them, in different parts of the spectrum of lost innocence would meander around and find chaos within their relationships. But his ambition was wider than that compact record, and so were his connections. With over 50 artists and 28 tracks, Always Dream is the sort of reggaeton project that can only be made with a lot of effort on a lot of people’s backs. This is molded, not only after Luny Tunes’ classic Mas Flow compilations from the mid-2000s, but also after DJ Khaled’s early mixtape incursions that noted him for bringing random artists together on a track. In Dímelo Flow’s case, there are some notable names missing: a lot of legends present, but no Daddy Yankee due to his retirement; no Colombian superstars, like Karol G or Feid (strange, after they made a whole album together); the Bad Bunny gang of Jhay Cortez, Anuel AA and Mora is also absent; and most of the people here are from the Central American portion of the world. Not that that means this will be devoid of variety.
Trying to make a connective tissue out of this album would be foolish and erroneous, so, maybe the best thing to do would be to look at certain kinds of track on this album, to see how they adapt and learn to coexist.
First off, it’s important to know the players here, because most of them know each other and Dímelo Flow well enough. For one, it’s good to see established names scattered along the tracklist. Zion & Lennox matching up with Colombian artists Jerry Di and Beelé for “Un Plan”, considering the new blood’s calm seduction matched by Lennox’s despair; it’s an appropriate scenario of revolving voices, all without ever getting to break too much. Gangsta seductor Ñengo Flow plays opposite Mariah Angeliq on “Dime Ave”, where she plays the smart enchantress on top of a crowded synth, like rain on top of a tin roof, and Ñengo loses his temper near immediately, and the autotune makes his lust as grotesque as his worst dreams. Arcángel, in one of his many appearances, aids the menacing Eladio Carrión and wildcard Brray for “Pártela”, a joyless, uncomfortable tune where Arcángel revels in the skeevy nature inside everyone else.
A real moment of tension is to be found on “Crazy”, where legends Wisin and Arcángel, newcomers Lenny Tavarez and Jay Wheeler, and in-between established artist Ozuna get together for a love song, and all of their personalities make it a wonderfully disjointed track. Arcángel and Lenny are the ones in control, the ones who can communicate their feelings with a fair amount of glee (Arcángel even sounds like he’s bouncing on top of someone in his verse), but Wisin, the main leading charge of the song, is the one who’s always lost, confused and desperate, like he’s always been. He adlibs everyone’s verse, even on Jay Wheeler’s overall confident verse, but his chorus is one of unresolved high notes. It’s a cruel move on Dímelo Flow’s part to end the song on Wisin’s verse with no final chorus, since it’s entirely sung and it feels like clenching his fists, thinking of the notion of endless sex without seeming to take pleasure from it. The division between the new school and old school is as clear as ever, and that kind of clueless masculinity, that doesn’t acknowledge how sensitive it can be, is a thing of the past.
Some artists who have done great things with this sound and this producer somewhat fall short on this project. Farruko and Rauw Alejandro show up basically back-to-back. The latter only does a short intro and the chorus of “Suelta”, that’s just a reworking of Mr. Vegas’ “Heads High” (the track is carried away by Fatman Scoop’s maniac interventions, like a beeping red dot). The former is also on “Suelta” although you’d hardly notice, but his other song, the reggae-leaning “Espíritu Guerrero”, fares much better, given that most of the song is on the hands of Kafu Bantón, with a raspy voice that works its way around triumph and fury all at once. On the other hand, artists like disgusting frat jerks Reik or boy band Piso 21 land good enough of a punch on “Winnie Pooh” and “Chimba”; the former, in specific, has a very enticing drum sound like a cartoon effect way in the background, making the song a ‘closed doors’ kind of kiss-off.
Those who remain more unknown also get their time to shine. Jorkan gets a Timbaland-like structure on “Mi Favorita”; C-listers like La Exce and Totoy El Frio are on “Punto De Vista”, a sad eyed tune that still indicates a distant kind of beauty; Messiah and BCA join Goyo for “Minuto 90”, a strange but endearing drill-bachata combination; Kiko El Crazy, a well-known figure on the dembow scene, has a solo on “Ruleta”, that pays dues to his cheap style of ornamental horns (and it takes a very funny four-on-the-floor detour on the second verse that aims for real hilarity). These are all highlights in their own, less conventional ways. There are methods to Dímelo Flow’s style that, inevitably, means you’re going to get some repeats or redundant moments, but it’s astonishing how much variety all these artists can bring, and there’s both an enjoyment of their contributions, and some kind of speculation on just how big the producer’s sound can go.
But it’s clear when Dímelo Flow is playing favorites, and his love of his usual contributors plays well with his sensitivities. On the lesser side of the spectrum, there’s iZaak, a behind-the-scenes songwriter who’s slowly been stepping up in front of the microphone. His abilities as a vocalist still need to be developed, but it’s clear he’s the one who brings that extra lingering pain in Dalex or Justin Quiles’ songs. His (almost) solo song here, “FKU”, is one of a girl leaving a horrible lover behind, but the melody can never feel cheer, just resignation. His team up with the two aforementioned names, “Hickey”, sees all 3 artists succumbing to the notion of being left with nothing. The main hook divides the word “dura” into its two syllables: “du” is stretched out, turned into a moment of meditation, a mind examination of all the beauties this girl has; the “ra” is tossed off, as if they knew they weren’t up to the task. At least, they try.
The hit of this album, “Se Le Ve”, is one of the best things Flow’s done in general, and one very much dedicated to his bros: a posse cut reminiscent of the Academy days, with 4 members present (sans Feid), alongside legendary team up Arcángel and De La Ghetto. It’s a party jam that’s as minimal as the best moments from The Academy was, but with a newfound sensuality where no one feels dragged out, or without experience; everyone seems to be on the same level. Flow’s beat destabilizes Sech and he still brags and gets to the hook effortlessly; Arcángel’s still the mischievous devil who gets all the girls; Justin Quiles, the sad sack of the group, comes in and owns the party in unusual fashion; in a twist of fate, Dalex, the charming easy going member of the band, is the one who gets left behind, but he still manages to have a lot of fun provided by the spare drums; and the hook on behalf of De La Ghetto is indelible, a touch of club smoke that feels like clouds.
That newfound sense of sensuality, unfortunately, hits its peak very early on, in the album’s second track and first proper song: “No Es Normal”. A song that features all peripheral members of the Dímelo Flow gang, and what they all have in common is their vicious sex craze, one that can only be looked through a contemporary feminist lens. Flow’s production tightens up the drums, brings in soggy synths that seem to mock everyone, and everything feels dislocated. De La Ghetto explodes, beaming with pride and confidence, yet reaching ecstasy with every line; Zion and Ñengo Flow stay calm in their drooling; Nio García, an unstoppable stunted man, kicks off the song saying he got dislocated by her ass, and alarms ring off in his verse - there’s goo dripping off his voice every time he opens his mouth. But the real kicker of the action is Plan B legend Chencho Corleone, merely relegated to chorus duty but bringing in waves: his hook spins around like a zombie, never touches the ground, and his voice, so androgynous, gives the words a different meaning. He insists “it’s normal” to want to misbehave, but the song is called “It’s Not Normal”. So, who is he talking to? What’s the song denying? And this small weirdo comes in, appealing to the feminine and masculine, and destroys the concept of sexual depravity. This isn’t mindless hedonism, it’s deeper than that: it’s addressing sexual liberation by way of freedom of gender expression in the least coy manners possible. It sees the driving beat as a way to unite. All through breaking a tone of voice.
All of which leads us to “MMC”. “MMC” is the pinnacle of Dímelo Flow’s work, and might just stand as the best reggaeton song of the 2020s thus far, partially because it sees reggaeton through the eyes of a broken dystopia, and rising above it all through the rhythm. We’ve seen the sexual liberation of “No Es Normal”, now we see what happens when said desires are hidden into oblivion. The track is ashes. If you think the hook from Lenny Tavarez feels sampled, it’s because it is: it’s taken from a refrain from earlier track (and single), “Se Le Ve”. The drums now pass in between rough frequencies and tiny taps, and the synth lines don’t carry melodies at all. This indicates a digital future where it’s all a wasteland, and horny lover Dalex has nothing to do but shame a girl for getting his dick up, and then croon her into touching it - the fact that it’s compelling at all says a lot about Dalex’s charisma. Party animals/legends Jowell & Randy are also here, knowing this song is a child of their work on Bad Bunny’s “Safaera”, and realizing that digital sampling excitement is gone. They treat sexual pleasure like routine, where the hedonism is hidden in the back.
This whole thing is a buildup for Justin Quiles. Known for being the pathetic, lonesome idiot who falls at any opportunity possible, once he sees that the rest of the sonic world is at its feet, with no resources or land to conquer, he blasts in: a small hiccup, then “Mama’era’ ‘e TOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOTOOOOOOOOOO”, and he’s screaming it at your face. It’s disarming by how physically powerful this wimp could suddenly get, whirling and whirling like he knew compassion didn’t exist. He breathes each line like a manifesto, breaking down walls because he knows no one will care enough. But the real change in attitude, the real turning point that has passed anyone by, is this line: “Si no me contestas, me hago una con tu foto”; “If you don’t answer me, I’ll get off to your picture”.
Woah.
That line may feel petty and dumb without any further context, but this is huge. After decades of the genre begging for some kind of attention, and (in cases like Justin Quiles’) crying for not getting it, his admission of doing what we all assume they do in private, with no trace or shame, and even a real dose of pride, is petrifying. It’s grotesque, it’s horrible, it’s saying the real hidden part out loud to the heavens, and it’s defying you to do or say otherwise. What he’s saying is, he’s going to get his kicks his own way, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it. In a genre that prides itself in describing its seemingly endless sexual prowess, one that implies either a) satisfaction on both ends, or b) loneliness on behalf of the singer, this pathetic confession turned into brag feels profane.
After that line, the song continues, to everyone’s amusement! Justin belts, over and over, without caring if the girl will do what he’s asking her to, and seemingly by work of magic, the track shifts tempos into a daring dembow. Nothing but the beat, this time. Quiles is pitched and looped for a hook, and Lenny Tavárez comes back, and if his verse feels sampled, it’s because it is: his verse was going to be used in Justin Quiles’ “PAM” from 2 years ago. The most confident member of the bunch being on the track while simultaneously being treated like a ghost, while the king of the pity party turns pity into arrogance, feels like a moment of the status quo changing. A moment where masculinity alone will get you nowhere, and a brighter sense of realizing your own virtues and flaws, and the power of putting them on display. Maybe not always in the blunt way that “MMC” proposes, but once the world seems to be ending, you might as well stop pretending. Y SIENTE EL BUUUUUHUUUULLL.
Next step: more women.