Selasa, 18 Oktober 2016

Pitchfork's Best New Album -- NxWorries: Yes Lawd!

NxWorries: Yes Lawd!

Imagine it: You grew up in Oxnard, Calif. Your dad went to prison for beating your mom. You had a kid with your second wife. You lost your job, and a place to live. You were homeless.

Your friends looked out for you. You slowly picked yourself up. You changed your name: Breezy Lovejoy became Anderson .Paak. You gained some traction, partly by redoubling your focus on your vocals, leaving the beatmaking to producers you trusted. Some Soundcloud hits followed, some friendships with well-connected rappers, a sophomore album, Venice, on which your voice had gone from a blunt instrument to a swiss army knife, able to do 15 different things at once.

And then you got the call. From Aftermath, Dr. Dre's label. A representative was checking to see if you were interested in the American dream, California rap edition—in working with an icon you'd been listening to since you were six years old. You made it.

Channel that experience, .Paak's own recent past, into a single song, and you might come up with something like "Livvin," the first proper song off Yes Lawd!, his new joint album with the beatmaker Knxledge. "Livvin" is triumph incarnate, a new entry in the tradition of "ashy-to-classy" tracks like "Juicy" and "Touch the Sky." .Paak preaches the gospel of success in between rolling drums, mellow horns, and a church choir. His voice's inextricability from the music is a testament to his chemistry with a producer steeped in the tradition of the beat scene godheads, Dilla and Madlib. (.Paak and Knx, whose real name is Glen Boothe, have merged their names into NxWorries, an apparent nod to the definitive Stones Throw duos, Jaylib and Madvillain.)

.Paak's sudden stardom, largely due to his work with Dre and to this year's Malibu, his extraordinary third album, might tempt listeners to give him the credit for Yes Lawd!'s many successes. But the record, which includes tracks recorded between early 2015 and March 2016, is first and foremost a beat tape, stacked with beautiful little donuts, most of which don't pass the three-minute mark. Knx was raised on church music, hip-hop radio, and J Dilla, and the rich instrumentals here are loaded with tributes to all three. "Sidepiece" offers .Paak a chance to sing the lyrics of "Won't Do" from Dilla's posthumous album The Shining: "One won't do and two is not enough for me, no," while "Can't Stop" is a zoned-out moment of musical reverie that intimately recalls Jay Dee. The beats are the soul of the album, and .Paak serves as a faithful instrument, the organ at their core.

Producers have fallen hard for .Paak and here, he shows several reasons why his stock has risen so quickly. He's uniquely aware of the flexibility of his voice as an instrument and is one of the more emotive rappers I can remember hearing, on a level with DMX or Young Thug. On "Best One," even as he expresses gratitude for a woman who's taken him in, you can hear urgency, and empathy, in his voice: "You know I could be leaving in a moment's notice/You telling me to stay to the morning/You know a nigga homeless." On "Lyk Dis," he channels no one so much as Erykah Badu, riding the beat with gravelly, percussive verses delivered in short bursts.

In the past, Knxledge has had trouble focusing on a particular sound for too long, but it's his focus that holds the record together through 19 tracks, even as he shows off his range. On "What More Can I Say," one of the prettiest songs here, mournful violin strings engage in a duet with a quiet bass rumble, and their interchange makes for some of the most moving music on the album, particularly when the horns arrive. (If you pride yourself on recognizing samples, this album will offer up a form of exquisite torture at least a couple of times, as you attempt to track down lovely little fragments.) The shuffling beat on "Link Up" is one of the more subtle offerings here, but its winding rhythms and muted sample make .Paak sound as if he's singing from the middle of the dancefloor, appropriate for a song about nocturnal pursuits.

Many of .Paak's songs are about going out, and particularly about women, and it's in their lyrics that Yes Lawd! reveals one of its only issues, a lack of lyrical substance. While an artist like Drake comfortably straddles the line between rapper and R&B singer, .Paak is more of a crooner than a rhymer. There are too few moments like the clever little lyrical elaboration on "Best One": "I could leave it at a drop of a fedora/But damn it girl I want you."

And what we get instead can be ugly. On "Livvin," .Paak sings about the feeling of ascending the ladder, but on some songs, it seems like he's pulling it up behind him. The sentiment toward other strivers on "H.A.N." is stingy, and .Paak's portraits of his relationships are often shallow—a fact that the final track "Fkku" seems to acknowledge, giving a woman's voice the record's final kiss-off. The worrisome thing here is not that .Paak can be sexist. It's that there's nothing to counter or contextualize his attitude. On "Suede," .Paak makes an explicit effort to justify the slurs he frequently uses: "If I call you a bitch/It's cause you're my bitch/And as long as no one else call you a bitch/Then there won't be no problems."

The records that .Paak and Boothe admire, the classic Stones Throw collaborations, found two artists working at the absolute height of their talents. Madvillainy, in particular, was a perfect match between an internal rhyme genius in Doom and a beatmaking savant in Madlib. That album, released in 2004, remains a high water mark in Stones Throw's history. .Paak and Knx are both so talented that it seems fair to hold them to that standard. And what's astonishing here is the way they manage to forge a sound nearly as rich and original as that of America's most blunted. One of the few disappointing things about the largely terrific Yes Lawd! is the way that Knx outdoes .Paak, but the rapper/singer is at the beginning of a bright career in which he's already demonstrated his ability to write rich lyrics—this record, which includes some of the most beautiful songs he's made yet, has far more to be proud of than not. It's another major accomplishment in .Paak's continued rise.





October 18, 2016 at 12:00PM
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Minggu, 16 Oktober 2016

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Selasa, 04 Oktober 2016

Pitchfork's Best New Album -- Solange: A Seat at the Table

Solange: A Seat at the Table

Solange Knowles turned 30 in June, and it seems clear that her Saturn Returns manifested in an artistic surge. A Seat at the Table, her third full-length album, is the work of a woman who's truly grown into herself, and discovered within a clear, exhilarating statement of self and community that's as robust in its quieter moments as it is in its funkier ones. Even though it's been out less than a week, it already seems like a document of historical significance, not just for its formidable musical achievements but for the way it encapsulates black cultural and social history with such richness, generosity, and truth.

To this point, Solange has been trying on styles and stretching out into her own skills as a songwriter. Having spent her early teen years singing backup and writing songs, she debuted as a solo artist at just 16, with Solo Star. Very 2003, it was a gleaming, hip-hop-informed album that slinked over beats from the likes of Timbaland and the Neptunes; even with plenty of great tracks, the production outweighed her presence. After a five-year break as a solo artist—during which she got married, had son Juelz, moved to Idaho, got divorced, starred in Bring It On: All or Nothing, among other films, and wrote songs for her sister BeyoncĂ© (whew!)—she returned in 2008 with Sol-Angel and the Hadley St. Dreams. That album was clearly immersed in a deep love of '60s funk and soul and its attendant politics, and she rebelled against expectations (see: "Fuck the Industry"), eager to fully express her individuality. She fused her musical impulses in the easy, ebullient grooves of 2012's True EP, which eased a glossier vision of pop into the soulfunk groove she had ingrained.

Even with such an impressive resume, though, A Seat at the Table is on a different plane. It's a document of the struggle of a black woman, and black women, in 2016, as Solange confronts painful indignities and situates them historically. Many of these songs draw from current reactions to the seemingly unending killing of black women and men at the hands of the police, but the scope of the record as a whole is much larger than that, with Civil Rights hymnals encompassing centuries of horror black Americans have been subject to, including that inflicted on Knowles' own ancestors. But even when Solange offers her narrative in first-person and incorporates her family's past through interludes with her mother Tina and father Mathew, she does so with such artistic and emotional openness that this album feels like nothing but a salve.

The quick sketch "Rise" opens slowly, on a sweet piano and with layers of Solange's voice in jazz modulations, as a sort of blessing and a placid encouragement to thrive despite it all. "Fall in your ways, so you can crumble," she sings. "Fall in your ways, so you can wake up and rise." The word "rise" lands on the high note, but the song lays out the album's central tension between pain, pride, sorrow, and fierce dignity. This leads directly into "Weary," a ginger, breathy document of exhaustion, and the deceptively euphoric "Cranes in the Sky," which, taken as a "Weary"'s counterpart, illustrates two stages of sorrow. What's so touching about "Cranes," though—intertwined with the airy, peaceful beauty of its video—is the way Solange specifically documents her process of coping, down to the smallest escape mechanisms. On a warm bass strut, she sings about drinking, sexing, running, and spending in an effort to be free from "those metal clouds," making visible the kinds of mundane things we all do in the service of a temporary reprieve. Naming these actions feels radical in and of itself, but by the time she flies off her own cloud of a a Minnie Riperton-level aria, she seems to have freed herself from the routine, and transcended it.

Solange has said that it was important to her to articulate her roots, and so along with the recordings of her parents, she made the bulk of A Seat at the Table in New Iberia, Louisiana, "based on that area being the start of everything within our family's lineage," the place where Tina Knowles-Lawson's parents first met and then fled after being "run out of town." In terms of production, her song structures, and melodies, she celebrates the whole history of black music. But the result is never derivative; when you recognize the spirits of artists like Riperton, Zapp, Angie Stone, Aaliyah (lyrically, in "Borderline (An Ode to Self Care"), Janet Jackson, Stanley Clarke, Lil Mo, Herbie freakin' Hancock and so many more, it feels more like a musical nod or a wink.

The master musician and bandleader Raphael Saadiq serves as co-producer; Saadiq meets Solange in the juiciest middle, both bridging their instincts between classic instrumentation and futuristic funk. The arrangements are voluminous, loose and tight at once, but Solange's voice is always at the front of this proscenium; each shows restraint as they lean into her collective vision. The sound they conjure is chill-inducing, an easy sound for subject matter that's as real and tough as it gets. The excellent "Don't Touch My Hair" (with a feature by Sampha) and "Mad" (her second collaboration with Lil Wayne) specifically address the way black women are devalued, and the songs meet that with resistance. Solange's voice is a palliative for the pain she describes, as she names truths to divest them of their power.

A Seat at the Table offers a hearth to black women as much as it asserts Solange's right to comfort and understanding. And in terms of her lived experience, the table of the album's title, metaphysical and physical, rests in her home of New Orleans. In several interludes, the rapper, label head, and entrepreneur Master P threads the album with musings on No Limit's runaway success as a black-owned record label (landed him on the Forbes list, baby). That particular segment leads into "F.U.B.U." ("For Us, By Us"), a honey-dripped slow-grinder of black affirmation, with tubas that sound inspired by NOLA's Second Lines as Solange mews, "This shit is for us/Don't try to come for us." Her sumptuous harmonies build a protective forcefield: "Some shit," she sings, "you can't touch."

A Seat at the Table's nature is beneficent, but at its spiritual core it is an ode to black women and their healing and sustenance in particular; in writing about herself, Solange turns the mirror back upon them, and crystallizes the kinship therein. She harmonizes with Kelly Rowland and Nia Andrews that "I got so much magic, you can have it," but the song that perhaps best encapsulates this outstanding work is "Scales," a slow-burning duet with Kelela near the end of the album. Their harmonies are heavenly and create almost a meditative effect, a mantra of healing kindness in a syrup-slow synth progression. It's a sex jam, I think, but it can also serve as a shine-theory jam. "You're a superstar," they sing together, letting the "star" part roll around a bit in the lower part of the vibrato. "You're a superstar."





October 05, 2016 at 12:00PM
via Best New Albums - Pitchfork http://ift.tt/2cRXOFn

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Senin, 03 Oktober 2016

Pitchfork's Best New Album -- Jenny Hval: Blood Bitch

Jenny Hval: Blood Bitch

When the feminist artist Judy Chicago showed her painting Red Flag in 1971, she set the precedent for a subject of art that now has a rich lineage: menstrual blood. Red Flag was a photolithograph that closely depicted a woman removing a used tampon from her vagina. At the time, moon-cycles were so hushed and taboo that Chicago said many people had no idea what they were seeing. Period art has since taken many forms. The disarray of Tracey Emin's 1998 "My Bed" installation included stained underwear. The 13 abstract canvases of Lani Beloso's 2010 "Period Piece" were thickly painted with her own blood. And let us not forget, more recently, the punk singer Meredith Graves mixing her blood into the vinyl of Perfect Pussy's debut record. In 2000, the artist Vanessa Tiegs coined a term for this field: menstrala.

There is a long history of abject art that makes use of corporeal waste. Julia Kristeva articulated this in her book Powers of Horror: "These body fluids, this defilement, this shit are what life withstands... on the part of death," Kristeva wrote. "There, I am at the border of my condition as a living being." But period blood is different. According to Kristeva, it "threatens the relationship between the sexes" because it "signifies sexual difference." And so, in threatening men, the stigmas surrounding menstrala have not waned. This year, the artist Rupi Kaur posted on Instagram a poised self-portrait with a central red stain—and it was twice removed, "accidentally."

The Norwegian avant-gardist Jenny Hval takes on the possibilities of musical menstrala with Blood Bitch. In an artist's statement, she called Blood Bitch "an investigation of... blood that is shed naturally... the purest and most powerful, yet most trivial, and most terrifying blood." With that, Blood Bitch, her sixth album, deliberately enters two other great traditions: vampire movies and—as with all of Hval's work—the timeless cross-hairs of art and pop.

No contemporary artist sings words like "sublimation," "clitoris," or "soft dick rock" with such enveloping elegance or unfettered ease. On Blood Bitch, Hval continues with her subtle deliveries of "abstract romanticism," "subjectivity," and "speculum." Her voice is at once extremely musical and coolly flat; occasionally, she whispers. On "The Great Undressing," even as Hval makes a cogent metaphor between capitalism and unrequited love ("it never rests"), the yearning in her voice recalls Lana Del Rey. (In 2015, at least once, Hval's touring troupe of singers, dancers, and performance artists did an unusual cover of "Summertime Sadness" that I will not forget.) Hval's "Period Piece" weaves melodies like gorgeous latticework as she describes a sterile scene in a gynecologist's office but turns it into her own personally transcendent experience. "Don't be afraid," she beckons, "it's only blood."

Collaborating again with noise producer Lasse Marhaug, as on 2015's Apocalypse, girl, Hval was drawn to reflect on her roots in Norwegian metal (in interviews, the duo have even noted ties between Darkthrone's black metal classic "Transilvanian Hunger" and Blood Bitch's lush, rolling penultimate track, "Secret Touch"). Though there are patches of harsh noise to be found, Blood Bitch parallels black metal more by its atmospheric nature, how it feels as though the record is thematically all-gravity and yet physically floating. The arrangements employ repetition, with recurring motifs and menacing synths that move in concentric circles. A subtle siren blare anchors "Female Vampire" and carries over "In the Red," replete with the sound of incessant panting, as if someone is running in fear. On the former, Hval sings directly of "a strange slow rhythm, not exactly creating a rhythm, in and out of focus, vulnerable," underscoring the nonlinear textures of Blood Bitch's sound. At its most featherlight, Hval's music is still positively saturated with ideas, all pulp, marrow, and (indeed) blood.

Combined with copious interstitials and its horror premise, Blood Bitch is Hval's most filmic album (which is saying something considering Apocalypse, girl listed characters from Bergman's Persona in the credits) as well as her most conceptual and surreal work. It's also slyly hilarious, adding levity to her repertoire. "The Great Undressing" starts with a meta piece in which Hval's bandmates discuss the record itself—a classic expository scene. (Zia Anger: "What's this album about, Jenny?" Annie Bielski: "It's about vampires." Anger: "No!" Bielski: "Yeah... Well, it's about more things than that...") Hval evokes true modern horrors, not just fantastical ones. On "Ritual Awakening," she sings, "I clutch my phone with my sweaty palm," soon flipping the object as "the coffin for my heart... It's so loud/And I get so afraid." Machines lock us. Whether it's Anger deeming vampires "so basic!" or Hval singing of "useless algorithms," Blood Bitch sounds fiercely present.

Blood Bitch is also more a montage than any of Hval's records. "Untamed Region" includes a sample of the British filmmaker Adam Curtis describing the disorienting power-trip of Russian politics: "It sums up the strange mood of our time," Curtis says alongside choral sighs, "where nothing makes any coherent sense." "Untamed Region" moves into a stately passage in which Hval vulnerably and assuredly dissects her own period, touching the blood. More extreme is "The Plague," which goes from tabla taps to a distressed, vampiric Hval summoning skyward, "I don't know who I am!" It's all cut with horror organs and absurdist dialogue ("Last night I took my birth control with rosĂ©!") before ghastly noise bleeds into a faint dancefloor banger. "The Plague" is like a repository of ideas, as if precisely documenting an active mind.

"Conceptual Romance" is Hval's best and loveliest song, and its genesis point is clear. Hval has often cited Chris Kraus' 1997 theoretical novel I Love Dick as her favorite book. The text celebrates the interior intellectual life of its narrator, a failed experimental filmmaker, in the context of a peculiar love story—she's become obsessed with a man named Dick and she writes letters to him. It began one night, when she believed she had "conceptually fucked" him (through conversation). She turns her fixed "infatuation" into an art project. When Hval sings of her "combined failures," when she sings "I understand infatuation/Rejection/They can connect and become everything/Everything that's torn up in your life," it's like she is writing her own love letter right back to Kraus (which Hval herself affirmed in a recent Wire feature). Hval said she was inspired by karaoke on Apocalypse, girl, and "Conceptual Romance" could be a result. Her most lucid writing casts the spell of dream logic. "Conceptual Romance" is Blood Bitch's lightening bolt moment, but it throbs with grace, like a procession of clouds.

"Why do people still not get it when we [women] handle vulnerability like philosophy, at some remove?" Kraus writes in I Love Dick. It's a fine summation of Hval's music. More than any of the musicians to whom she is often compared (Laurie Anderson, Björk), Hval is a clear disciple of Kraus. On paper, Kraus moves fluidly from reference to reference, dense with ideas; Hval's music is like this, too, and never more than on Blood Bitch. Like I Love Dick—which tends to draw lines, life before reading, life after—it is primarily about female genius and voice. "I need to keep writing because everything else is death," Hval sings on "The Great Undressing," "I'm self-sufficient, mad, endlessly producing." Blood Bitch conveys the visceral euphoria of creation. Blood, it reminds us, is not only a life force—it's where we begin.





October 04, 2016 at 12:00PM
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Minggu, 02 Oktober 2016

Pitchfork's Best New Album -- Danny Brown: Atrocity Exhibition

Danny Brown: Atrocity Exhibition

Danny Brown is an auteur. Hip-hop has a tradition of collaboration, but the Detroit rapper is a one-man show who, while he reps his own Bruiser Brigade and works frequently with a handful of producers, has a voice and vision completely his own. You can think of his progression over the last five years in filmic terms. If 2011's XXX was the brilliant independent foreign film that was critically acclaimed and wildly successful and put him on the map, Old was the solid but safer domestic version, with higher production costs, a prettier cast, and many of the edges sanded off. Atrocity Exhibition, then, is the movie someone makes after they come back down to earth from making that tentpole project, a work predicated on the "one for me, one for them" mentality.

Brown's individual releases need to be understood as part of a whole, and in each of them, he has an obsession with form. On Old, he took a throwaway line about getting jumped on the way to the grocery store to buy Wonder Bread from XXX and built a whole song around the incident, and he snakes references to his older work throughout Atrocity Exhibition. Take the title of the first song, "Downward Spiral." It's a direct nod to XXX's opening track, where Brown prominently (and memorably) rapped: "it's the downward spiral, got me suicidal/But too scared to do it." By reaching back five years, Brown makes Atrocity Exhibition a brick in a larger edifice, perhaps a bookend to an implied trilogy that starts with XXX and ends here.

Structurally, Atrocity Exhibition finds Brown doubling down on familiar tropes from his last two records: once again he starts with a gripping opener, the mise-en-scène; following that are some shorter songs in rapid succession that do the dirty work of exposition; a back-half run that reckons with the hedonism that comes before it (that section here starts with the Kelela-anointed "From the Ground"); and then, finally, a stomach-churning closing track that is never triumphantly resolute but feels like an ending just the same.

But the references extend well beyond Brown's own work, and well beyond hip-hop. "Downward Spiral" is of course an oblique Nine Inch Nails nod, and Brown, who sampled This Heat and Hawkwind on the same song on XXX, drags Atrocity Exhibition through an industrial, electronic, post-punk sludge, borrowing a title from Joy Division while releasing the album on Warp. The bass on "Rolling Stone," a duet with South African singer Petite Noir, is pure New Order. "Ain't It Funny," with its bold horns, recalls the Stooges' flirtations with free jazz and Bauhaus at their most bombastic.

The thirty-five-year-old Brown has an old-head mentality as a rapper: play a song and he'll rap on it. Make any beat and he'll rap on it. It's about rhymes, wordplay, and (for lack of a better term), bars. This approach isn't currently fashionable, but there's a pleasure in hearing someone else's joy at putting words together—Brown's old-school bent intermittently hits some delirious highs, from "Slice your tomato if you owe us for the lettuce/Running through the sack of D sorta like Jerome Bettis," to "Rocks about the size as the teeth in Chris Rock's mouth."

The potential pitfall to this word-drunk approach is sometimes his songs just aren't easy on the ears. The production here sounds wonderful—frequent collaborator Paul White is credited with 10 songs, and the two have an easy chemistry, because both indulge in coloring outside traditional genre lines (White's collaborative album with Open Mike Eagle from earlier this year, Hella Personal Film Festival, is kind of like the quieter, gentler, non-evil version of this album, pulling from a different set of rock influences). But Brown sometimes lapses into his Old flows, that idiosyncratic style where he falls off beat, gets in front of it, or simply yells above it. He avoids the frat-baiting EDM songs like "Dip" and "Smokin & Drinkin" that pocked Old here, even though singles like "When It Rain" (more vintage Brown than anything from the past five years) and "Pneumonia" flirt with that sound. But fortunately they're too rough around the edges, too jumpy, too dark to soundtrack a scene like this. To its credit, Atrocity Exhibition balances its sonic elements and never slips into the mush of guitars and bad ideas that threatened to infiltrate rap at the dawn of this century. White, Brown's most gifted and consistent collaborator, keeps things at an even keel.

No matter what's going on with the music, Brown's acute emotional writing is once again on full display. Where XXX seemed to promise a way out, Old reflected (and sometimes reveled in) the lifestyle afforded him through his breakout success. This record, as dark, dingy, and uncomfortable as it is, continues to suggest something deeper is haunting Brown. "Everybody say, you got a lot to be proud of/Been high this whole time, don't realize what I done/'Cause when I'm all alone, feels like no one care/Isolate myself and don't go nowhere," he offers. He so internalizes all of his demons that, for the third record in this implied trilogy, you start to worry—is he irredeemably lost? Is his pain a response to his upbringing in Detroit, ground zero for armchair sociologists looking for a symbol of American decay? How long before the dam finally breaks? The great "Lost" here brings all these concerns to a head. 

And then there's "Really Doe," produced by Detroit compatriot Black Milk, which juts out on the geography of the album because it features guest rappers (B-Real merely shows up for the hook on "Get Hi") and also because it's the only song not directly about Brown's demons. It's a fun track, and Earl Sweatshirt does that thing where he acts like he's not rapping but ends up murdering everyone anyway while expending as little energy as possible. "I was a liar as a kid, so now I'm honest as fuck," Earl offers, his unwavering delivery always imbuing what he raps with a startling amount of intimacy. You sometimes wish Brown could hit these more casually real notes more frequently, like he did on the origin story "EWNESW" from XXX or the blackout bars of "Greatest Rapper Ever" and "White Stripes" from 2010's The Hybrid. But Brown is too good a writer and too focused on the whole not to carry heavy feelings into all his songs, like "some people say I think too much/I don't think they think enough," from "Rolling Stone," and "your work killing fiends/'cause you cut it with Fentanyl," from "Ain't It Funny."  These reflective lines are the work of a smart writer with an eye for hard-earned detail, and Atrocity Exhibition finds Brown back behind the lens, capturing raw emotion with grainy 16mm.





October 03, 2016 at 12:00PM
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