Kendrick Lamar - Mr. Morale & The Big Steppers (jazz rap)
The thing is, you can be transgressive and conservative at the same time. You can push boundaries and cover new ground (on relative terms, of course) and, once that new parameter is set, sort of ease up on it and not develop on it. If you’re one of those who’s helped shape the “new normal” of anything, once that new normal is established, and others are actively continuing the path you set, you could feel reasonably inclined to not be interested in following said path. It’s a matter of putting in the time, the mind, the money and the resources into more corners where you may guide others. A lot of people don't want to do that. Dylan didn’t in 1969 (if not 1967, or 1965). Jerry Seinfeld didn’t, once he reached the mountain top. D’Angelo found himself unable to for over a decade. The temperature can get too heavy, not everyone’s down to follow it. This tends to happen more often than we think.
A lot has been said about Mr. Morale & The Big Steppers, maybe even too much. The discussion of Kendrick’s failed attempt at removing himself from the hero worship he (kind of) accidentally placed himself in was more than enough to decry all the flaws in Kendrick’s matrix, and just about all of them are correct. Even if those flaws are intentional, they still linger quite too heavily over this project to ignore. The thing is, and this is part of some weird compromise between Kendrick and… someone out there, this isn’t inaccessible or particularly musically challenging. If he wanted to throw his audience in for a real loop, from a musical perspective, he could’ve. But that’s not what he wants to do. If we were to boil this down to half a sentence, therapy seems to have really tired him of the memes.
The way he’s chosen to assimilate that is certainly one to bring some worry. Kendrick’s musical senses have rarely felt this numb and smoothed over. Two collaborators spring to mind, bringing in both the best and worst in Kendrick’s abilities. Baby Keem makes him give into the absurd vocal timbres, kooky and fastidious in a way that reminds us Kendrick is a wonderful vocalist, especially in an album where he seems more dialed back than ever; that sense of humor is well appreciated. Sam Dew, on the other hand, with his present writing credits throughout this album, could be taken to task for many of the flat R&B moments that see Kendrick stepping into vocal arrangements he just can’t pull off too well, alongside Dew’s constant vocal presence in the background that remarks he only writes melodies for his own voice (him feeling worthy enough to adorn Beth Gibbons on “Mother I Sober” is the pinnacle of pompous arrogance on this entire album).
The arc that’s to be found, within the loose confines of a therapy session/breakthrough, is one less of positive reinforcement, one more of letting the rest of the world go by, so an internal, personal refocus and reshifting can begin. That means, in a nutshell: no moments where the filter gets too restrictive, and every ugly aspect sadly and unfortunately comes to life. It’s a statement of contradictions, how Kendrick’s ego can get constant boosts just for thinking he’s in the right, or merely recognizing he’s in the wrong, all in a framing where that reaffirmation has to be set free. On those terms, I appreciate how he can slide into moments of nakedness without realizing that’s the case. A favorite of mine is “Worldwide Steppers”, with how the beat stays looped like a thought that can’t escape its fate, and Kendrick kicks off squeaky and loud, and without so much of a warning, slides back into his low register. Ending the first verse with “Like the first time I fucked a white bitch” leaves you with the funny implication of what that could have meant, and it doesn’t prepare you for the immediate second verse, where he goes into lengthy details of how his first time fucking a white bitch really was. He sort of stumbles on that thought, and realizes it’s worth chasing it.
The main issue that arises, over and over, on this album, is the notion what, while in therapy, it’s all so in the air and hazy, and it’s allowed to be that way because everything that happens there stays there, that some concepts just can’t be grasped in a matter of minutes (or even a whole 70-minute album). It’s certainly challenging that he defies the generational and cultural shift in perspective of trans people on “Auntie Diaries”, even if the framing ends up making most of the song about him and his own experience with his trans family members, but the main sin of the song, the one that can’t be excused even on a conceptual level, is that it’s delivered with an air of bumbling out the words, unsure of how to mend his previous wrongs, winding up inconclusive. Which does beg the question, if you’re not confident (or at least, displaying confidence) in what you’re saying, why say it at all?
It’s strange that the other two main emotional draws on the album, “We Cry Together” and “Mother I Sober”, respectively musically and lyrically heavier than “Auntie Diaries”, feel somewhat easier to swallow: on both those songs, Kendrick has no qualms centering the narrative on himself, be it as a malevolent figure or a caster of evils. He understands himself a lot better than he does other people, so he stands on far more solid ground. It’s that isolation, one of the traps of constantly looking inwards, that Kendrick falls for on this album, one that makes him seemingly unable to look away from his own mistakes and his own messes.
That could be the main reason why, in an album so focused on empowering the women in his life, the figure he chooses as progress of change is abuser Kodak Black. It would read as cognitive dissonance, but Kendrick’s had this attitude towards artists with a rapport like Kodak’s for a while now. The catch is that, while his bits on ‘cancel culture’ are frustrating, and you can feel a fear of both sides-ing his way through some tougher conversations (quite paradoxical, if you take the outro of “We Cry Together”), they’re not the reason why Kendrick feels like this. Or, if they are, it doesn’t translate onto the music. He feels and acts defensive because he’s aware of how often he can be in the wrong, even on this album, and he doesn’t need reminding. He could shut off the world if he wanted to. He’s so shut off that he can’t seem to fully grasp the actions of someone like Kodak, and will extend his forgiveness to him, because as much as he’ll like to tell us he’s “not our savior”, he still will feel like playing the part when it’s convenient. That’s the hypocrisy running through Morale that makes even Kodak’s good moments on this album feel, if not hollow, then misplaced.
The silver lining in all of this, and one that should be reminded a bit more often, is that there’s still a lot of levity and enjoyment coming from within Kendrick’s own persona. He’ll expose his demons in the most performative ways possible, but he still thinks within specific jazz-like sounds, now closer to outright trap than ever before, that allows this album to have a certain weird bounce when it wants to. Taking a lot of pages out of Baby Keem’s The Melodic Blue from yesteryear, lead single “N95” features that particular high-key voice in its second verse, all while triumphant horn synths show up for amusement, and a descending piano line appears to remind us of the effervescence of that moment. Kendrick’s inflections on hooks like “Silent Hill” or especially “Rich Spirit” are amusing, and the former even has space battle game synths that give Kendrick and Kodak enough of an airy vibe to shrug each other off. In particular, the psychedelic vibe of “Savior” makes Baby Keem’s brief appearance feel more desperate; “Are you happy for me?”, and everything’s moving backwards.
Those are most of the good trap-adjacent moments. Most of the album’s main moments find themselves circling back to many of Kendrick’s high spirit notions of previous albums, only with lesser stakes. The two-punch of “Die Hard” and “Father Time” has been duly noted by many people, including audiences. The former has a soul vibe with a distant fog horn, and a solidified chorus from Blxst followed by Amanda Reifer’s higher, less stable section. The latter fares much better, with a strong piano line and one of Kendrick’s most expressive performances on the album; the song’s instrumental moves through sections as it sees fit according to Kendrick’s reaction, in constant reciprocity, something most of this album sorely lacks. The best out of all these is opener “United In Grief”; Sam Dew’s opening preamble is a bad setup, but the snippets of drums that eventually find themselves marching to somewhere completely unknown is evocative of a struggle to go forward that finds its erroneous conclusion in Kendrick’s hook, “I grieve different!”. Seeing it, eventually, be put down by a voice going “We all grieve different” is a rare moment of realizing that lack of connection to be found in current society that isn’t found on most of Morale.
Although, it’s the songs that get to find that kind of balance that stick out more. “Purple Hearts” matches that old school sample progression with modern, cloud rap-esque synths, and Kendrick’s corniness can be a bit much at times, but he properly conveys exasperation alongside Summer Walker with “I know y'all love it when the drugs talkin', but / Shut the fuck up when you hear love talkin'”, and Ghostface Killah brings in real intensity that gets him fed up with something more abstract than what Kendrick’s used to. Naturally, the slow burn nature of “Mother I Sober” is highly enveloping, with a piano progression that wouldn’t feel out of place in an old trip hop composition (perhaps a nod to Beth herself), but with tapped kicks that feel contemporary and trademark for Kendrick - makes sense Sounwave is on this one. It’s as strong a confessional as there is on this album, one that, isolated from where it comes from, could be a real turning point of change; change that’s indicated by Beth Gibbons’ vocal production, where she sounds like a dusty sample instead of her clean, ghost-like self. Kendrick’s too aware of this, and having his wife pat him on the back for “breaking a generational curse” and his daughter thank him is too much, once again thinking that Kendrick’s absolved just because he’s put in the time to mend things.
That’s one step, but it’s not the final piece of the puzzle. Closing the album with the mantra “I chose me, I’m sorry” is appropriate - in Kendrick’s case, even somewhat healthy. But it’s just not enough. No one person “breaks” history, not without proper accompaniment and guidance. As much as those are addressed and talked about here, the notion that he’ll be able to build his world anew because he’s making the right calls, puts him back on a pedestal where he won’t feel comfortable. This album should have a happy ending, but instead, it’s frustratingly rotational.
The fact that, despite it all, Mr. Morale & The Big Steppers still does stand as an album worth checking out in 2022, isn’t a statement to “how low the bar currently is”, or how “there’s no one doing what Kendrick’s doing”, or “there’s no one doing what Kendrick’s doing with such a large platform” (although that last point could be discussed more thoroughly). It’s the fact that, in these times, it feels as though you can’t rely on anyone. That’s this album’s equal mission statement, accomplishment, and biggest point of criticism. Seemingly without that intention, Kendrick seems to have thrown the ball onto us, and now we have to do what we can with what we have. It speaks to our failures, participates in our failures, and then exonerates itself from them. Now, the path is clear, and we have to choose if we take it. One way or another, let us be mindful when we speak.
Pongo - Sakidila (kuduro)
It’s a matter of getting accustomed to these sounds, and eventually being able to party your way through and with them. Directed from Angola, while using the wider European market based in Portugal, Pongo’s breakthrough is one that celebrates its inherent kuduro culture, with sounds that aim not only for dancing, but also for strutting. This music thrives on the feeling of constantly displaying confidence, of going around and knowing what else it can find there. Pongo plays the seductress, the dance commander, the warm lover, the life celebrator, sometimes all of the above at once, and it never feels as though she’s losing ground.
The main idea here is combining genres coming from many African countries, alongside Angola’s kuduro. Since most of Sakilida is rooted in house music, we’re bound to get South African amapiano, and Nigerian afrobeats, even with some influences of dancehall along the way (even some nods to Latin American reggaeton, or at least, sounds that indicate the common background). It’s all carried by Pongo herself, who starts off the album strong and keeps it going. Opener “Hey Linda” is admirable in just how much it’s not willing to waste time, and after a second’s worth of introduction, Pongo’s thrown in with plastic beach tones, crooning a sweet, calm melody, which is then thrown off balance by her more confrontational verses. The main idea is to empower, and that comes not only from kindness and patience, but also maybe a bit of tough love! Pongo goes for that!
That intensity can be found quite often here, and every time, different sets are being put on display. Midway through the album, “Amaduro” comes in and it’s as spare as this album gets, with Pongo screaming the titular word with a call-and-response where they’re all trying to one-up each other, alongside a house bass that knows it has to lurk because the party going on upstairs is too much. Immediately after that, “Bruxos” is forced to stand its ground with tinkling percussion and artificial handclaps, and Pongo goes in and out of the microphone, shifting her volume with every sound. Her mocking chorus, “Digui digui digui digui di” is immensely fun, but she keeps at it, cheering up the crowd with bit-like synths that eventually turn into a desert race after her command. This is a party where you have to put in 100%.
None of which invalidates or puts down the calmer moments at a party, the times for a bit of intimacy and an attempt at fulfillment. While the second half of the album is devoted to its endless party vibes, there’s a good section before that which sees a queasy Pongo diving into both reassurance of her love for others, and vice versa. “Só Amor” makes its preset cymbals and horns have a real swing to them, as they move alongside watery synths and melodies that sway along an elongated “EeeeEeee” from Pongo, a grateful presence through and through. The tropical atmosphere is enhanced in the sunny “Vida”, in particular its middle section with what sounds like a live acoustic guitar shimmering through different parts of the mix. The party is so wide and colorful, it invites you both to move and find a cozy place for yourself, maybe for someone else too.
But, as advertised, the fierceness displayed by Pongo all the way through sends this album into a frenzy where all senses are eventually lost, and what’s left is how much you can feel from the moments of most intensity. The propelling hook of “Começa” with purple synths and chanted backing vocals drills through the “devil may care” attitude holding this music. The electronic cut “Kuzola” is a moment of cold stares and confrontative sounds, with a particularly squeaky keyboard that indicates the insecurity that can be found within Pongo’s world, and a need to not let up, or let her guard down for too long. It’s a mix between her gentle sung vocals, and the sharp sounds on display, from the keyboard to the aired up snare crashing the mix every couple of words.
Perhaps the most refreshing thing about Salidika is that, while most pop albums nowadays are prone to slowing down, cooling itself and ending off with a note of grace, this album decides to do the exact opposite! The more you get to the finish line, the more intense and cacophonous it gets. Pongo keeps raising the stakes from a sonic point of view, since she’s already vocally giving it everything. She puts a whole percussion group to dance on “Bica Bidon” accompanied by an inspired verse from Titica, and an outro of moaning vocals digitized and processed. She takes classic reggaeton samples for “Pica”, a more lethargic cut that bounces through sampled vocals. She reworks “Wegue Wegue”, her isolated hit from the late 2000s, and keeps that aggressive and dominant tone for a moment of personal vindication, where everyone else not only can join in, but is basically left with no other choice. Closer “Goolo” kicks off with screaming that turns into a melody, alongside whooshing synths that, for once, indicate a sense of urgency and even triumph, but then, the party goes deeper, with more obscure tones and more emphasis on the bass, like if we were going underground to find newer places in which to find ourselves. It feels like the night and day alone just won’t cut it. The whistling in the background makes it look that way.
That level of commitment to the variety of the party, shining the spotlight on all the moments of fun and new possibilities that could arise, is what makes Pongo, and this album, so enriching. This never wallows in detachment or irony, nor does it take a distant attitude to sensuality, self confidence or the belief of finding true love. This sets its track on top of so many genres that indicate themselves for dancing, and brings out the purity within that mindset. How much that can add to oneself and give it all for the moment, and also once the party ends. You take these rhythms with you when you’re home. “Tu sabes que és a diva!”
Cazzu - Nena Trampa (pop rap)
It’s strikingly weird, in a landscape where so many Argentinian artists have burst into the scene, respected and successful worldwide with sometimes one or more projects on their sleeve to imprint and mark that success, Cazzu’s the one who still feels like she has something to prove. The way we’re standing, she’s rightfully seen as a role model for Argentina’s rap and pop scenes, a trailblazer of Latin American trap that brought a level of sensuality and outspoken feminism to the table, and could still slide into a radio-ready reggaeton beat and have a hit on her hands. Her debut album, Error 93, is a statement of vulnerability and bravado, and how those can and even need to exist, and is a foundational project for artists who are currently seeing far more success than she is.
With a couple of good mini-projects after that, Nena Trampa feels like an album made to state the enormous range that Cazzu has, and how she can fit into so many sounds and ideas. She nails it, because of course she does, but there seems to be a lingering feeling of urgency to her demonstration that surrounds this album. It’s not unwarranted; ever since the new decade rolled in, Cazzu’s name hasn’t been big enough to land a hit, on her own or as a feature. The public’s reaction to her work started shifting from admiration to respect, and respect can be had from a distance. The feel of this album is to have a wide audience engage with her, and her material, more openly. It’s not an album full of concessions (although there are some staggering ones), more one that’s aware its time on the spotlight might not be for much longer, so it needs to impress as much as it can.
An album so aware of its eccentricities that Cazzu herself tweeted the genre of each song after the tracklist was announced, the writing on the wall is very much there. Every song follows a different beat. Props to producer Nico Cotton for making this album sound incredibly cohesive, though, to the point where you won’t feel whiplash from one front-to-back listen - the jumpiness here even excites you, to look forward to what comes next! Because Cazzu breathes and inspires that kind of confidence.
The reggaeton songs fare ‘worst’ here. Just about everything here is well assembled, but the more straightforward we get, the more this album loses that aforementioned intrigue. “Isla Velde” has a very good vocal slide in the chorus, but the melodies are overall too static, despite the overt sexual content. “La Trampa” is co-produced by Big One and co-written by FMK, and it both lyrically and melodically falls into their typical brand of pitiful wimpiness, one that Cazzu can’t fit in. Radio hit “Maléfica” has a very bad verse from María Becerra (when they trade bars in the chorus, you can tell who the real pro here is), and while the chorus itself is fun and catchy enough to serve as radio filler, the bar should be higher than that.
The amount of rap here, and the variety of such, is one to take notice. Cazzu takes on drill music for more than a diversion. There’s posse cut “Fulete” alongside Brray, Ankhal and Luar La L, each one more menacing than the last, all with a spare beat that emphasizes Nico Cotton’s ability to let things be in a dark, empty room, and Cazzu enters praising her icon Ñengo Flow and saturating the autotune. She even made lead single “Trampa” a drill song as well, one that thrives on machine gun sound effects whirring through an industrial atmosphere, but with beautiful touches like a choir of backing vocals for a mere word, or a bright guitar being strummed for no more than a second. Her flow is as cautious as always in stepping through a landmine and inhaling all the smoke; she reminds us, “soy el trap”, and no one could doubt her.
All of these fronting songs still give way for some very acute and touching moments, where Cazzu plays into both familiar and unfamiliar structures with similar ease, because she knows that what’s connecting them is her kind of emotional openness and disposition. “Piénsame” is a lovely milonga, an acoustic song that follows the traditional melancholic chord progressions. It’s not mixed well enough (Cazzu’s voice peaks in the mix in a very distracting fashion), but Cazzu rises through it to show no pride in leaving behind a man who loved her, and the song exudes both repentance and acceptance. One that very much came as a surprise was closer “Los Hombres No Lloran”, a reggaeton cut that sees Cazzu offering her lover a chance to break away from his established masculinity and show the hurt he’s been through, with the knowledge that Cazzu will be there to hear him out and comfort him. It’s a noble statement to break away from the macho stereotypes, with the thought that, even if it alone won’t cut it, a lending ear is a fine place to start the deconstruction.
Yet, as is with most good artists, the best moments are when Cazzu gets to combine all her sensibilities, and roll them into multi sections of swaggering briskness. She raps without a care on “Yo, Yo y Yo”, with a trap beat masked by a folclore guitar and movie trailer synths wonderfully restricted, and Cazzu’s train of thought is one that reaffirms her massive empathy for those without her luck, or privilege, attempting to stand and speak for those left in the dust, all while still being at the top of the stratosphere. As persuasive a case that you can have it all. And “Peli-Culeo”, her collaboration with reggaeton legends, De La Ghetto and Randy (co-written by Mora, too!), sees her pining for a girl at a dark club, knowing that she’s into her too, and as much as this song focuses on sex, the main hook, “Ella baila como una striiiiiiippeer”, is one of romantic, hearthrobbing awe. Ghetto and Randy add to the vulgarity, and run away with the second half of the song, but that first step is crucial. She matches intimacy with sexual pleasure in a way that nowadays is sorely lacking.
Cazzu makes herself indispensable in this album, not only for Argentina’s broader scene, but also for the spectrum of Latin or Hispano-speaking music in general. She maintains her national traditions and credentials, exporting them in palatable ways for the rest of the world, but still treats her music with a sense of real poise and care, and she never allows herself, or her producers, or her features, to get too sloppy. She’ll keep going, if only for the sake of seeing how much more ground there is to break.
Lupe Fiasco - DRILL MUSIC IN ZION (hip hop)
Proof that, if you think things through far too many times, you kinda end up dead. The over explanations and rethinkings upon rethinkings that have plagued Lupe Fiasco’s career have been the ones who’ve stopped him, for almost 2 decades now, from being properly considered one of the greats. His skills as an MC were (almost) always undeniable, but they just couldn’t sustain constantly poor musicianship on behalf of everyone around him. Cheap producers with zero tact on their beats; awful singers to deliver tacky, ‘edgy apple juice commercial’ hooks; sections upon sections of songs going past their expected length, bloating the albums past the hour mark. And even Lupe’s own writing skills could get tampered with, mostly due to his constant, unrepentant patronizing of the entire hip hop scene, the kind that stuck to platitudes and surface-level condescensions, but always performed with such omniscience it made him sound ridiculous.
The first problem seemed to be dealt with almost immediately on this album, while the second one is still being worked upon. Hearing this was a 41-minute album with only 11 tracks, recorded over the span of 3 days with one producer (Soundtrakk) and one featured artist (Nayirah), my first thought was, “thank God”. Some brevity is not only appreciated, but goddamn needed. The problem was with the title: Drill Music in Zion. Say, you’re not going to try to take one of hip hop’s current major movements and act above it all, nagging your way through it, right? It certainly seemed that way when the first track, a spoken word piece delivered by Ayesha Jaco, Lupe’s sister who’s been a constant album opener of his, each time more pedantic than the last, opened up with “Drill music, pop that pill music, kill music”, and I couldn’t help but feel I’d been duped.
Color me surprised when it turns out DRILL MUSIC IN ZION isn’t only a great listen, but also one that makes the most uses of Lupe’s limited abilities in front of and beyond the mic, one that utilizes grace and the spirit of conversation in a lighter, more humorous way, and one that encapsulates a man with a lot of skin and personal stakes in the game after all these years, hungry and excited. We’re starting to see what’s bound to happen to the elders of hip hop as the 2020s roll around, and while Lupe’s still young enough to not fall under that category, he does paint a light as to how to approach a young man’s game from a more distant perspective, without said distance meaning looking down at everyone else.
It’s funny how, after years of negating the risings of trap, or giving in but with an attitude that very much marked that he didn’t like what he was doing, Lupe hops in on a trap beat like “AUTOBOTO” and, for the first time, sounds like he’s enjoying himself. The hook is stupid, but he’s done far worse, and it’s got a slide to it that’s quite worth appreciating. He’s finally learned that levity is important when it comes to delivering a message, and the slow developing of the lost rap persona that eventually fades into the same hook, delivered in R&B fashion by Nayirah with a real aimlessness, like it all was disappearing then and there, makes it one of the finest and most accessible conceptual pop songs in Lupe’s career. And both those attributes are tied to each other in ways earlier Lupe wouldn’t have admitted so openly.
That’s the one anomaly on this album, which may have a chorus from time to time, but hardly ever follows a pop structure in its shiniest moments. Lupe thankfully doesn’t need that, either, and even with all the contributions from excellent vocalist Nayirah (one to keep an eye out for) like her chorus on “PRECIOUS THINGS”, Soundtrakk’s production has never been too colorful, so it’s mostly up to Lupe to make these songs something worthwhile. On the aforementioned “PRECIOUS THINGS”, you get a funny quip (odd to find that in Lupe’s music) like “I swear my hands werе pure, I gave 'em manicurеs”, but it’s mostly half-baked conceptual drivel - not aided by the following track, “KIOSK”, where Lupe dives into a rap-sung flow that doesn’t suit his static voice at all, and the keys are too tied up to move around that much.
Once you realize that the album itself is formed on shaky ground, with a title and a deadline, you get to witness the making of a record and a statement in real time. In other words, the album gets stronger as it goes on, and it wouldn’t surprise me if the order of these songs is the order in which they were recorded. The entirety of DRILL MUSIC IN ZION comes seemingly in a flash for de facto centerpiece “MS. MURAL”. A strong, sturdy instrumental, and Lupe waxing lyrical about the differences between the observer and observed, a patron and a painter where art, at its purest, can’t be too consumed by everyone, or else it will subsume to capitalistic desires. Lupe’s lyricism is pragmatic, but inspired in placing art’s juxtapositions: “Not to sound shamanistic, but there's medicine in pain(/t) / It gets kinetic if you let it, there's a fetish in its strength”; “So in all of my work, you see this wrestling with fate / Deceiving in the brushstrokes how aggressively I strafe / Less like putting on some makeup, more like severing a face”. That’s some potent imagery (one that Lupe’s all too aware of, and his vanity will show up), one that indicates a certain empathy with those trying to fight their way through the fetishized, dull art world in any capacity.
That’s the strength of, and the key point to really liking DRILL MUSIC IN ZION. It’s music that speaks to those with creative minds and sides with their quest to change things up, as well as their frustration when met with the real world. In a world where everything feels decadent and banal, the attempt to keep things moving, even on the fringes, is essential. (It’s also a bit misguided on Lupe’s part, how he ties this arc of art decay to drill music, one of the most exciting and refreshing trends in rap music of the past decade, but don’t throw the baby out with the basket.) Seeing him go off on “NAOMI” alongside an old boom bap beat is a treasure for anticipating that pulsating restlessness that still takes itself with ease, at least for the first verse (though it must be stated the second verse is the worst moment on the album). Ditto with “SEATTLE”, where the ambiance is subdued and taken down a couple notches, and Lupe’s fast flow allows for a darker train of thought, more instinctive than usual.
More album highlights are, indeed, found in the final portion of the album. I was hesitant for this album in particular to have a title track, especially considering its jazz rap production (and it doesn’t help that he drops the title in the chorus, either), but his diction full of tech namedrops in the first verse, all aiding to a robotic-yet-organic sonic contradiction, and a semantic being a follow up and segue for what came before and after, is strong storytelling. The second verse, when he allows himself to back things up, is much better and well realized, as he digs deeper into judicial blindsiding that slowly morphs into his own privileged way of living, is telling of the impact that society has on him (“Why should he have such views of the ocean? / And not be hanging from the gallows with his neck neatly broken? / I let it soak in, then I put the soap in / Then I put the boats in, then I play with both them” contains brilliant, ridiculous symmetry).
But the real moment of revelation is one that Lupe had been aspiring to his entire career, which is closer “ON FAUX NEM”. After a 35 second intro, with neon synths and Lupe’s crooning, all a build up for the first verse, once it starts, it goes: “Rappers die too much. That’s it, that’s the verse”. And he just lets the beat play out for a couple more bars. For once, Lupe doesn’t fuck around and says what he means with no pretensions, and it rings off as sadly true, not only because it’s accurate, but because he realizes no flashy lyrical savviness can make that truth more palatable. He does get pedantic halfway through the second verse, but the final verse makes that arrogance feel like a pose: “I wish that they was lying in their raps / How does that transpire / To be so damned by God, you want your friends to be goddamn liars?” Like the rest of the album, this is a song that pledges to be better, but also acknowledges how hard, and nonsensical, and odd that feeling is. Lupe gets caught in his own traps, but he makes an effort to try to escape them. Starting with speaking from a place of empathy is as good a start as any.
One final note: “'Cause I'm a part of the problem / Sometimes the P-, sometimes the -roblem”. Funny, and insightful, and brief! It’s about balance.
Caroline Spence - True North (country, americana)
Country music is kind of revealing in terms of what will get you wrapped up in it. There seems to be so much, and yet pretty much all of it is rooted in a very specific, American folklore tradition that’s meant to appeal to core emotions, barely toying around with winks and nods to earnestness. With that kind of heart-on-its-sleeve mentality, the kinds of sounds that will make you, personally you, tick, will have a say on your sensitivities, on how much you allow yourself to open up, and how that resonance can affect your reaction to the work itself. Obviously, this can be applied to just about any work of art ever made, but country’s one of the genres in Western popular music where that factor is most readily evident, unable to escape from.
Caroline Spence’s brand of country, very openly mixed in with the clean-cut dream pop aspects of the early 90s (minus the distortion) and the wide set Americana feel, should feel a lot grander than it actually is. The sound is, for the most part, wonderful and incredibly detailed, and it does sound like a lot is being sprawled upon. The catch is, Caroline herself doesn’t focus on the open road or the feel of the town, but rather mental and psychological patterns that leave her stunted, or stagnant, or overall beat down, yet trying to rise above. Therefore, everything must be toned down a few notches, because it simply wouldn’t fit her otherwise. She’s bet on too many losses, and can’t fully account what it is to take in good things, at least not without the anticipation of them walking away. This is a hesitant album for hesitant minds, by a hesitant artist.
A strong summary of True North can be “Clean Getaway”, the sort of ecstatic dream-like song that doesn’t get bloated with reverb or gated to hell. All the sounds, from the gleaming piano to the strummed guitars, are kept in a solid, steady ground. Caroline’s voice is one of sweet treatment, as if she was some girl singing in some bar, leaving out a halo that goes unnoticed, and that does bother her. The composition itself, dealing with running away from your problems as a crime, a ‘getaway’, and naturally a failed one at that, reads like platitudes when you take most of the words out of context. The main line itself, a wonderful melody like a car that won’t work, “Thought I made a clean, thought I made a clean getaway / But you don't get to get away from this”, could be a good or happy ending, or at least one of acceptance. But it’s not. The bridge, more potential platitudes, “You gotta face yourself in the mirror / Gotta know what it is that you fear… / And chase it down”, is not one of reassurance: it’s one of running out of options. Chasing down her demons is the last resort. Taking the right route is seen with an eye of resignation. As beautiful as these sounds are, they are deeply jaded. “There’s no way out.”
If being forced to make the right decision is the way to go, the conclusion can imply something good, or at least something better. It’s great to hear that kind of honesty on the tender love ballad “Scale These Walls”, where she’ll emphasize, “I’ve got my pride / And I don’t like to ever need” but still try harder to have her lover work their way through her, and she’ll make sure to meet them halfway. It’s slow going, but the grabbing of the slide guitar passing through the mix, and the deep, rich piano that backs everything up, make sure there’s room for a conversation in the future. Compare that relative sunny day to the night time of “I Know You Know Me”, with a foggy synth backed up by reluctant guitars, and Caroline realizes that her loneliness, seemingly one inherent to her, is being noted, and there’s no positive or negative connotation. The intimacy is there, but the comfort isn’t guaranteed.
I highly appreciate the revival sound of the dream pop era, with a song like “Mary Oliver” sounding like something early Hatchie would have sung over, although Caroline’s type of writing is in a quite different direction, and her ‘twee’ factor is barely noticeable. This isn’t the kind of person you idealize. Her debasing of her own art is tragic, all in the vein of not wanting to “let you down”, and the idea of ending up being “a heart on a sleeve” feels like a sentiment of doom. But it winds you up in such a strong way, with the lush organs and bells, indicating a celebration occurring somewhere, that you realize that this is the dream. It makes sense she takes on a bluesier approach on “Icarus” for the rising and breaking of her own rituals, to have something else in her hands - a real shame the tune isn’t that good, or that she isn’t strong enough a vocal presence to make it work.
All of this to not dance herself away from the more precise moments of heartbreak. The most direct one is “Blue Sky Rain”, the ephemeral precision of realizing that one moment will eventually fade, just as a relationship disappears. It highlights Caroline’s composition, how the pre-chorus seeps into the chorus, that aims for small high notes that deliver a kind of compromise the lyrics aren’t ready to offer. The sadder pep talk is honed in on “The Next Good Time”, an acoustic number where Caroline, on the verge of everything, is trying to tell someone else to grieve in a way that’s attempting to be healthy, or at least level headed. “Grit your teeth, get through it, and wait for the next good time”. That piece of domestic advice, probably brought up by genius co-writer Lori McKenna, is easier said than done: that’s why Caroline won’t give in to it so easily.
There are plenty of moments where that calm seems to give itself to fear, and a lot of times, Caroline will seem to aim for a recovery, like on “The Gift” or “Walk That Walk” (the latter of which I wish I liked more, but features these loud, heavy, 80s industrial death march drums; the one musical misstep on the album). But, as comforting as they can be, yet never reaching contentment, the album winding down for a chest bass and aureola synths on closer “There’s Always Room”, is the one moment where moving on feels, not only achievable, but worthy of effort. It’s taking in the second, third, or fourty-seventh wind, and realizing you’re going to need another one. The lost love turned into pain is one where the inevitability of bumps in the road are finally expected, and trying to avoid them is what makes the journey not inescapable or gone. After opening her heart up one more time and being left alone, Caroline’s voice soars, and mellotrons come for a brief second: “But I know I get one wild and precious life”, and after a line or two, they leave, only serving as a reminder that those sounds are there whenever she needs them. The final lines: “I’ll carry ‘round this heart, bruised and ripe / And I will keep on falling to the ground”. The brave and strong survive. I’ll drive so far away. Both of these things can be true.
billy woods - Aethiopes (abstract hip hop)
For as many great things as there are to say about billy woods’ music, including this new album, there need to be a few disclaimers and/or criticisms. First off, billy woods is, more often than not, quite insufferable. His abstract lyricism, drenched in symbolic fashion upon symbolic fashion, all includes meaning that is very much there, but he’s not one to even try to meet you halfway. His way of obtusing words is far too self-aware and self-conscious to feel like a train of thought you can get lost in; he kinda forces you to follow every word he says, with very little overt sense of humor to be found. On top of that, and this is almost criminal, his musicality as a performer is just about nonexistent. Following his lyrics is deeply enrichening, but hearing them? Having them be performed, delivered, to try to get something out of some potential musicality or extra weight to the words? Not at all. Just about ever. It’s all, always, dull. billy woods is an incredible wordsmith who relies, dare I say, desperately on the aid of his producers (or, in Aethiopes’ case, sole producer, Preservation) to bring in that extra atmosphere and punch, take these words somewhere that veers on the cinematic, or even theatrical, to place you where those words are, so billy’s voice doesn’t have to deal with that heavy lifting. All of this entails that you can’t just put him on in the background as ambiance, because, if the tone is well set, you’ll feel like you want to follow all of it. But it’s never a one-man job.
Aethiopes is one of billy’s more worked over pieces of work, one that keeps its track so short and with so many features around, that it never feels overly indulgent, no matter how wide its scope is, in terms of references and points of comparison. More to the point, this is one of his most carnal-sounding albums, one where he deals with a lot of bodies and flesh, filtered through moments of generational and cultural trauma, and said bodies are felt through the production and the mixing. He’s not one to indulge in or advocate towards pity, because his vision is one that always ends up looking towards the bigger picture. Preservation’s production aims for harsh, thorny sounds, taking The Bomb Squad for inspiration but leaving behind the booming bass drums and focusing on the desolate Public Enemy interludes, those of something that feels like the apocalypse, but is not quite there yet, and that’s what makes it scary. Everything that’s not adding up feeds into the broken systems, and the sound is that of muddy waters and isolated fragments.
The album’s cover art is a close up of Rembrandt’s painting Two Moors, a strong statement for an album focused on how the concept of blackness was heavily molded and shaped by Europe’s vision. That aids towards the capitalistic way of living being seen through a parallel concept to the slave trade, all referenced by the film adaptation of Wole Soyinka’s Kongi’s Harvest. The connection to that work with this one is more incidental, aiding the understanding of the worst habits of delusions of power being aided by European nations, but still being perpetuated (to this day) by African leaders and dictators. billy’s world is that of paranoia and repetition; patterns that simply aren’t given a chance to go away. The visual staggerings of forests and jungles connected to rainy streets is the main motor being subjected to here.
As heavy as this listen is, and one that isn’t interested in cutting the audience any kind of slack, it’s not completely impenetrable. There’s so much richness in color here that will drive to specific images within the mind before the lyrics even really get to properly sink in. Once “No Hard Feelings” shows up, its drumless composition and main instrument, a funeral horn-disguised-as-guitar, will already get to present the underlying stagnation that perpetuates billy’s world, as mundane as that can be, from a smoker in his apartment to a girl being a no-show, all with the cycle of passing the blame on to someone else, and that someone else winds up being billy, and he takes the heat. Before even addressing the lyrics on “Sauvage”, the chains being used as percussion, and the one guitar note sampled on the right channel (like a flashing lightbulb in a cell), drive the song underground. billy’s forgotten headlights memories are marked wonderfully on the noir-like “Christine”. And, on a rare moment of (something-like) levity, following the painfully intense “Heavy Water” and “Haarlem” with “Versailles”, a reggae beat introduced by a dumb whirling siren sound, like toying around with the keyboard controls, is even somewhat funny!
For the most part, this album will stay in the cavernous reels of lost footage, and using Kongi’s Harvest as openly as it does makes this album feel more tied together, something that’s necessary since billy always seems to be on many conversations all at once. The aspiration of lingering thread found on opener “Asylum”, the kind of song that sounds like a taberna jazz band with no member hearing the others out, is captured by the monologue of the Kabiyesi, who understands his power will overrule that of the dictator due to a spiritual power that, in billy’s world still marred by Ethiopia’s dictatorship, is hard to find.
That’s a hard thought to parse through on the centerpiece “Haarlem”. The first half, calm but eerie enough, is tied together by the realization that, once tirant Korgi has been killed, the cycle of abuse of power will go on, because that spiritual world hasn’t been reached. The second half, diving into that final sample, “Destiny has entrusted in our hands the will of the state. The will of the state is supreme”, comes in sliding into that specific circle of hell, not all the way down just yet, with plummeting pianos attempting no harmony (and Fatboi Sharif’s verse, while not lyrically noteworthy, dials back into a hellish creature tone of voice), all to conclude with the hypocrisy (heard, not seen) of Korgi’s refusal to have pictures taken of him, all while posing. The music’s telling us, this is what leads the rest of us there: either be it lack of transparency, or plastic transparency. Which one’s worse?
This does lead to another, important point, which is that, as it was said earlier, this isn’t a one-man job, and billy knows it. The good middle part of this album is crammed with features (11 of them in 7 tracks), and they very much add to the feeling of constant plurality that doesn’t let up on anyone during these times. billy’s no man of single catchphrases, quoting passages of his writing would always feel inconclusive, so it’s interesting to hear him, on “NYNEX”, outright go, “The slave master's children all looked identical / True, the future is children, but whatever future you buildin' already look misеrable”, and it feels like a Statement. Accompanied by E L U C I D’s more mystical train of thought (that still feels juvenile compared to everything else), Denmark Vessey’s concision and Quelle Chris’ smoked out sense of humor, it becomes evident there’s no one solitary answer to these propositions. “Heavy Water” is a lot tougher, with billy, El-P and Breeze Berwin trading 8-bars verses to each other. The fake sitar and jammed-up bass set a claustrophobic atmosphere for all 3 to march on through, sometimes coming out a tad lame (mostly Berwin), but still trudging through a united front of confrontation, ending with billy’s “Ashanti gold on Queen Elizabeth neck / Scarification across both breasts”.
But a well known highlight is “Sauvage” alongside Boldy James and Gabe ‘Nandez. It’s as cyclical as this album gets, in terms of something not being able to stop, or change its course, as these men detail the bleeding tissue of the commodification of violence, and even an encouragement of such for black communities. billy’s verse stands out for his contemporary references, where his cryptic references have to be met with anecdotal reminiscences, because his hellish world is closer to everyone else, and he wants us to realize that. He near-finishes his verse with “Godless savages”, and while it’s directed at those above, he knows those words can be used against his own will. Boldy James sets up that scene, the one where it feels as though it’s all meant to be this way, with capitalism emptying people of color of their identity, which is the point of Gabe ‘Nandez’s short verse, the most repetitive of the bunch: “No collar on my neck, no secret / Sauvaaage”. It all harkens back to European notions of power, and who stays below it.
The album ends up having to leave its main features behind for the final conclusions, tracks that benefit from this being such a short listen, relatively speaking. The space age-like synth on “Remorseless” is an intriguing counterpart to the avoidance of generational wealth, even if billy, for once, admits to how tempting it would be to give in to a more lavish lifestyle. But those systematic blocks find their ways into the common people, and billy’s too burnt out to realize anything else. The announcement of public execution by Kongi’s character is brought back for the last time as “Smith + Cross” closes off the album in a way that openly leaves no conclusions (though, when has billy done so?). He can’t avoid a touch of pedantry (“The emotional affair was the best / Intoxicating, let’s not ruin it with sex”, come on, dude), but the stuck choir vocals end up serving as a zooming out, as he’s eventually left alone, and we fade in to so many people together, yet alone. If the circles of slavery are still being carried through today, “It's a freedom in admitting it's not gonna get better” is as positive a statement as he could make.
At least, he practices what he preaches. There’s no intent of everyone trying to get along here, and attempting that would be, at best, disingenuous. billy’s a man of his word, mostly because it’s all he has. The noble thing he does is acknowledging and recognizing that it's not his fault, entirely. He won’t shift blame without reasoning, and then blame others for his lackings, but he will point to the rest and propose, what is there to do? He plants himself between that distinctive field of giving up and fighting. It’s doing the latter, never the former, but with the mindset that the fight itself will not be enough, and may not even get to properly make real change. Call him one of the most honest rappers of the underground right now! Though, I wouldn’t suggest having a drink with him. Not that you could find him, either.