An Acute Case: 21 July 2023

Dopey frivolities, unrestrained power ballads, personal testimonies, meta break-ups, and 14 Bob Dylan songs that don't exceed five minutes

Lewis Capaldi: Broken By Desire To Be Heavenly Sent
A look at the track listing shows the difference between shortest and longest song as 25 seconds. A skim through them all reveals he’s singing within four seconds on nine and before one on three. And a pair of functioning ears inform you it's mastered fucking loud, even for streaming fidelity. All of which is to say he’s not just in control of his art, he’s utterly committed to it. Part of the formula is an emotional brinkmanship in which stakes that start at fever pitch get more outsized, with a new instrument per verse the usual order. Piano > drums > strings on “Haven't You Ever Been In Love Before?” Piano > plucked guitar > full choir on “Love The Hell Out Of You”. As for the voice that’ll peel the skin from your face and the taste from your buds, it doesn’t let up. Not that there isn’t plenty of shading. Still, this is sweaty, unrestrained power balladry that’s every bit as unremitting as your wife says it is. But it’s also some kind of masterpiece. Will you cringe? Hope so. Will you decry ersatz sentimentality? Certainly. Will every song convince you it's not? From the unvarnished honesty of “I hate to think I made you cry but love to know I crossed your mind” to the rawer still “No sense of self but self-obsessed” and nothing but stunners in between, you bet. A

Bob Dylan: Shadow Kingdom
A spin-off from 2021’s available-for-48-hours-only gimmick movie in which Dylan and a masked band performed these songs—originally released between ‘65-’89—in the fictional Bon Bon Club, only for paying audiences to later discover it was all mimed and, apart from Dylan, the musicians on film weren’t the original performers. Speculation continues, which was probably the idea. But what matters is that the show within the show adds depth to the songs within the songs. Elegant segues by the drumless combo convince that, in Dylan’s multiverse of song, this is just one of an infinite number of moods and modes, which says “I contain multitudes” more artfully than singing “I contain multitudes.” Revitalised by the spirit of reinvention, he sounds better than he has in over a decade, with a more resonant timbre and wilier phrasing. Naturally, age factors into his interpretations. Or at least my interpretation of his interpretations. “What Was It You Wanted” becomes a musing on memory, “Forever Young” a thanksgiving. The walking pace “Tombstone Blues” is played with ominous finality. And apropos of nothing, the single new song—instrumental “Sierra's Theme"—is the perfect accompaniment to watching migrating swifts. A MINUS

Ian Hunter: Defiance Part One
High-spirited boogie that’s righteous even when which it’s a little grouchy, which for an 84-year-old in a sausage fest of displaced sidemen isn’t bad going. *** (“Bed Of Roses” “I Hate Hate” “This Is What I’m Here For”)

Jealous of the Birds: Hinterland
First warning she hasn’t kicked the leaden poesy is the first line. First warning she hasn’t limbered up is the first bassline. Neither augur well. But she still plays a fetching acoustic and early on gets closer than ever to simply saying what she means. Then she recites poetry. ** (“Cynic's Song” “Morse Code” “Out of Orbit”)

Killer Mike: MICHAEL
On his first solo album since he injected his slick talk with political animus a decade ago, lapsed atheist Michael Render suffuses the turbo-charged militancy of his jewel running with a high and holy gospel of greater warmth and only slightly less asperity. Even at his most tender he raps like a stampede, so executive producer No ID permits only the most resounding beats. But no matter how hard they hit, all bend to the spiritual power of the proud, mournful, exuberant, weary, and mostly southern black voices that surround the star—CeeLo Green and Lena Byrd-Miles's exultant melisma, Mozzy's dried husk, Young Thug’s ineffable croak, 6LACK's sorrowful mumble, Future's addled moan, Jagged Edge’s bombastic raptures, Ty Dollar $ign's eager croon, Kaash Paige’s druggy ad libs, Andre 3000's cosmic enjambment, Eryn Allen Kane's mollifying sighs. Commanding the space between them, Mike serves a mandate for personal testimony, telling the story of a chubby young jit grown into a mulish leader with a preacher's flow that's liquid in motion and devastating on impact. Taking his advice from Dave Chappelle and Louis Farrakhan and his prayers in Yoruba, he doesn't claim his dope boy salvation makes him perfect. But he’s always honest and fundamentally decent. To his junkie auntie. To the babies whose parents he sold dope to. To the teenage sweetheart whose abortion he still regrets. A

Jenny Lewis: Joy’All
Though her melodies aren’t as inspired as they once were, she still has the facility to produce well turned tunes in the classic style. And though she’s too cool, too analytical, and too much of an ironist to be vulnerable, she remains one of semipop’s warmest singers and most revealing lyricists. Yet there’s a soft belly to this collection that doesn’t favour her bite or sensitivity. So it’s a good thing that after a decade in which she turned 40, lost both parents, ended a ten-plus year relationship, and swapped her NYC dream for a cheaper Nashville one, she’s found an equanimity that manifests musically as dopey frivolity and lyrically as a comfortable second gear. While the Lord taketh with one hand (neither “This shit is crazy town” or “Take a chance on a little romance” will lead to another “A Better Son/Daughter” or “A Man / Me / Then Jim”) he giveth with the other (“You cannot unsee the search history” or “My forties are kicking my ass and handing them to me in a margarita glass.”) With Dave Cobb producing and Jon Brion knocking around the studio, Lewis can focus on furnishing every song with something comely: oo-ee-oo-ee-oo’s, handclaps, thunderclaps, harps, bongos, guiros, idiophones, and whatever the hell’s getting plucked on “Apples and Oranges”. Until she rediscovers slashes in song titles, that’ll do fine. A MINUS

Nathaniel Rateliff & The Night Sweats: What If I EP
Loosies from a group who’ve always been too uptight for their own good time vibes. Better when the pastiches are of actual artists (McCartney, Nilson, Newman) than some vague idea of blues/soul/whatever golden age. * (“Buy My Round” “That’s Your Opinion”)

Jess Williamson: Time Ain’t Accidental
Unlike collaborator Katie Crutchfield, Williamson is neither a knockout melodist or haunting vocal presence, so my takeaway from I Walked With You A Ways was of a neat literary talent hemmed in by Americana dos and don’ts. But after leaving her longtime boyfriend in the dust and walking a ways further with producer Brad Cook, she’s developed a less guitar-reliant sound. One whose trendy textures and peculiar drum patterns provide more germane settings for words phrased with the care and precision they were written with. And to bear down on a surprising metaphysical bent that runs from album title to opening line (“I have a life real far away / You wouldn’t make a lick of sense in that place”) to “Chasing Spirits”, where she asks whether her old love songs are lies now that the love’s gone and references one from five years ago (“about forever and loving you in a past life”) that was plenty meta to begin with. Balancing things out nicely is a knack for traditional country that’s easier to follow but no less smart. Somewhere between meta and matter of fact (write the pun for that yourself): “I want a mirror not a piece of glass.” A MINUS