An Acute Case: 1 July 2022
The new Miranda Lambert = height x width x depth (according to someone who failed maths)
Horace Andy: Midnight Rocker
Sparse arrangements borne on dub basslines and dotted with spectral figures courtesy of Lee Scratch Perry collaborator Adrian Sherwood—a decaying harmonica here, the ghost of a wah-wah clavinet there. Andy's falsetto, oracular and troubled, bobs along leisurely without ever stirring the waters. If this is his American Recordings, his wisdom doesn’t touch your soul like Cash’s, but he’s an old head with a gimlet eye on worldly evils, and it’s good to hear him give money and covetousness a whooping. Inspirational verse: "All that glitters is not gold, all that's written is not so / Smoke and mirrors, sticks and stones / What about the half that's never been told?" B PLUS
Camila Cabello: Familia
The good ones have danceable Latin rhythms, the dull ones resort to down-in-the-mouth trendiness. Both mine a vein of kiddie pop that peaks on the one featuring King Kiddie Pop himself (who I hope for his sake is responsible for more than his meek vocal). *** (“Bam Bam”)
Miranda Lambert: Palomino
Laid back, sure, but whether she’s pickin' out new exes, changin' tyres and changin’ plans in her pursuit of happiness, or asserting her spot as the only bitch in the band to a wannabe Jolene, this is also Lambert at her most independent. Even when she goes third person, it’s to celebrate other women’s freedoms—from "bad motherclucker" chicken farmer Carol Jean, to the daughters whose mamas she counsels to let them grow up to be cowboys if they want. But let’s not overstate the lyrics. She expresses her wandering spirit through sound. Giving Nashville’s best musicians free rein, America’s greatest vocalist, collaborator, diva, and probably some other things stretches every song to its maximum height, width and depth until she’s the lone figure in a vast soundscape of peerlessness. From drums on ‘Actin’ Up’ that could start a dust storm to the jumpy piano and guitar on ‘I’ll Be Lovin’ You’ to the ‘wait, really?!’ B-52s hook-up on ‘Music City Queen’, this is more or less a newsworthy weather event for fifty minutes. As for attitude, “Pullin’ on some nicotine” hasn’t sounded this cool since you were fifteen and making bad life choices. A
Leyla McCalla: Breaking the Thermometer
Subtitles to the ‘Story Behind the Song’ videos include “(soft upbeat music)”, “(rhythmic upbeat music)” and “(singing in foreign language)”. No sarcasm intended “(seriously)”, those descriptions are just dandy. Wider context: it’s part of a multimedia project about the Duvalier regime. But without the other “multis”, it too often wilts from album to score. (“You Don’t Know Me”) ***
Abiodun Oyewole: Gratitude
Grandfatherly advice on how to live, love, and leave a legacy that includes hugging trees rather than burning them to the ground. Old people are crazy! Grandfatherly beats, too, but not always in a good way. * (“A Poem”)
Pusha T: It’s Almost Dry
My interest in rap beefs is negligible, but as hip-hop's apex predator I understand why Pusha needs them, and while they motivate him to stay at this level I'm happy to play cheerleader and risk supporting the wrong team. As ever, what he says is only as important as how it sounds, which includes how it rhymes. Sequences like "dealin' with"/"ventriloquist"/"immigrant"/"disinterested"/"insulin"/"Timbaland's" are elite, Neptunes-assisted spine-crushing basslines are as menacing as his most hurtful brickbat, while the Kanye-assisted Donny Hathaway sample wears the same shit-eating grin as Pusha’s unreconstructed worldview. The narrowest division separates the opulence of his current lifestyle from the perils of the one it took to attain it. Even though he paints both sides as black and white, he knows the grey areas only too well. When he gives a glimpse of them, it’s with lines as eminently unpackable as "We sellin' white privilege." I look forward to the theses on that one. A MINUS
Sister Ray: Communion
Warm and warbly singer gets a lot of work out of her kick drum on sparse but not ascetic songs, which are possibly about breaking out of confines—religious ones, judging by the song titles. * (“I Want To Be Your Man”)
Slum of Legs: Slum of Legs (2020)
Brighton-based radical-feminist sextet whose next trick is to saw a violin in half. That’s also their current trick. And the previous one. In short, a lot of sawing to go along with a lot of thumping and group shouting. They have a keen interest in accelerating entropy (don’t expect a tight beat, do expect a terrific din), our crumbling social fabric (first song mentions Debenhams and Peterborough), and, duh, radical feminism (“Our common enemy is k-k-kyriarchy”). Lead vocalist Tamsin has a flat and well-spoken wail that’d sound kraut-y even without titles like ‘The Baader-Meinhof Always Look So Good In Photos’. She has impressive ability to hop between lyrical modes, too, from the Joycean to the nakedly honest. The latter is rawest when trained on self-image. Online dating song ‘RUTHE14ME’ opens with the painful “On our first date, will you judge me by my weight?”, while the RAF (not the air force) song is more light-hearted: “To care so much about the way you look is counter-revolutionary.” Dating profile bio: “We are a blast farrago.” Mission statement: “It’s time to set them on fire.” That they are and that they do. A