Category: Music

The Grey Album

DJ Danger Mouse‘s Grey Album is, at the very least, an audacious conceptual coup. DangerMouse combines the unchanged vocal tracks of Jay-Z’s Black Album with instrumentals derived from the Beatles’ (so-called) white album.
Musically, I’m not convinced this re-engineering really works; voice and music don’t really go together convincingly, but neither do they clash in ways that seem particularly meaningful. There’s no real “dialectical interaction” here; and, as a commentary on race, or on black and white music, nothing in the actual sounds goes beyond the initial idea.
Still, the results are weird enough to deserve a couple of listens. The Beatles material is cut up and rhythmically manhandled, in order to line up with Jay-Z’s raps.
Predictably, Danger Mouse received a cease and desist order from EMI Records for this stunt. Yet another example of the way that copyright is inimical to creativity. Sampling and recombination are what music (and culture in general) is about right now. The paradox of art today is that originality comes out of repetition: from altering, and doing violence to, what already exists. To ban sampling is not to protect original art, but to make sure that only derivative and unimaginative works ever get made.
Fortunately illegal art still has the album for download.

DJ Danger Mouse‘s Grey Album is, at the very least, an audacious conceptual coup. DangerMouse combines the unchanged vocal tracks of Jay-Z’s Black Album with instrumentals derived from the Beatles’ (so-called) white album.
Musically, I’m not convinced this re-engineering really works; voice and music don’t really go together convincingly, but neither do they clash in ways that seem particularly meaningful. There’s no real “dialectical interaction” here; and, as a commentary on race, or on black and white music, nothing in the actual sounds goes beyond the initial idea.
Still, the results are weird enough to deserve a couple of listens. The Beatles material is cut up and rhythmically manhandled, in order to line up with Jay-Z’s raps.
Predictably, Danger Mouse received a cease and desist order from EMI Records for this stunt. Yet another example of the way that copyright is inimical to creativity. Sampling and recombination are what music (and culture in general) is about right now. The paradox of art today is that originality comes out of repetition: from altering, and doing violence to, what already exists. To ban sampling is not to protect original art, but to make sure that only derivative and unimaginative works ever get made.
Fortunately illegal art still has the album for download.

Raiding the 20th Century

Strictly Kev’s “Raiding the 20th Century” (warning: 54MB download; site is often down) is an amazing mash-up, or rather meta-mash-up. That is to say, this almost-40-minute-long mixtape doesn’t only sample multiple sonic sources at once; but the sources it samples are themselves mash-ups, composed of multiple samples at once (e.g., it doesn’t sample James Brown, but Double Dee and Steinski’s James Brown mix; it doesn’t sample Eminem, but the Freelance Hairdresser’s mix of Eminem with a ragtime piano). It’s sonically dense, in a way that repays multiple listenings: I’ve been playing it over and over for the last couple of weeks, and I still discover fresh things each time, that I hadn’t noticed before.
“Raiding the 20th Century” works in a variety of ways: 1)by moment-to-moment juxtapositions, in a sort of manic free association; 2)by recurring motifs, as sonic landmarks old and new (from the Beatles to Beyonce) keep on returning in varying combinations; 3)by suggesting a sort of narrative, with suggestions of chronology from the invention of mixing in the mid-20th century through the digital developments at that century’s end (though the chronology is not strict and is often violated, there’s enough of it there to reinforce the suggestion that some sort of story is being told: we start with the brute fact of the tape recorder, mixing sounds promiscuously; then at about 14 minutes into the set, we are invited back to the origins of taping, and from there we progress forward to the present; 4)by the insertion of various voices discussing the art of the mixtape (William Burroughs discoursing on the cut-up method with tape recorders; John Lennon being interviewed on how he put together “Revolution 9″; fragments of McLuhan’s ‘The Medium is the Massage” recording, etc.).
“Raiding the 20th Century” is emotionally gripping as well as intellectually challenging: it is exhilarating like I imagine a ride in a space ship would be. Beyond the game of identifying fragments (that’s Jimi Hendrix! that’s Kelis! that’s … it is so familiar but I can’t quite put my finger on it), it powerfully suggests a continuum through time (if not quite space: it is nearly all Ango-American, with little or no “world music”), a Celestial Jukebox in which patterns of musical invention jostle one another without being bogged down by ownership, copyright, and other barriers to (even if they are supposed to be rewards of) creativity.

Strictly Kev’s “Raiding the 20th Century” (warning: 54MB download; site is often down) is an amazing mash-up, or rather meta-mash-up. That is to say, this almost-40-minute-long mixtape doesn’t only sample multiple sonic sources at once; but the sources it samples are themselves mash-ups, composed of multiple samples at once (e.g., it doesn’t sample James Brown, but Double Dee and Steinski’s James Brown mix; it doesn’t sample Eminem, but the Freelance Hairdresser’s mix of Eminem with a ragtime piano). It’s sonically dense, in a way that repays multiple listenings: I’ve been playing it over and over for the last couple of weeks, and I still discover fresh things each time, that I hadn’t noticed before.
“Raiding the 20th Century” works in a variety of ways: 1)by moment-to-moment juxtapositions, in a sort of manic free association; 2)by recurring motifs, as sonic landmarks old and new (from the Beatles to Beyonce) keep on returning in varying combinations; 3)by suggesting a sort of narrative, with suggestions of chronology from the invention of mixing in the mid-20th century through the digital developments at that century’s end (though the chronology is not strict and is often violated, there’s enough of it there to reinforce the suggestion that some sort of story is being told: we start with the brute fact of the tape recorder, mixing sounds promiscuously; then at about 14 minutes into the set, we are invited back to the origins of taping, and from there we progress forward to the present; 4)by the insertion of various voices discussing the art of the mixtape (William Burroughs discoursing on the cut-up method with tape recorders; John Lennon being interviewed on how he put together “Revolution 9″; fragments of McLuhan’s ‘The Medium is the Massage” recording, etc.).
“Raiding the 20th Century” is emotionally gripping as well as intellectually challenging: it is exhilarating like I imagine a ride in a space ship would be. Beyond the game of identifying fragments (that’s Jimi Hendrix! that’s Kelis! that’s … it is so familiar but I can’t quite put my finger on it), it powerfully suggests a continuum through time (if not quite space: it is nearly all Ango-American, with little or no “world music”), a Celestial Jukebox in which patterns of musical invention jostle one another without being bogged down by ownership, copyright, and other barriers to (even if they are supposed to be rewards of) creativity.

Me and My Brother

Yes, I know. Me and My Brother, by the Ying Yang Twins, is nothing but stupid (stoopid?) party music, heavily misogynistic and relentless in its praise of getting fucked up, wearing its ghetto “authenticity” on its sleeve (not the least through endless repetitions of the n-word), but probably appealing mostly to frat boys. Still, I can’t help myself: I basically ignore the words, but I find the beats infectious. The Twins’ production is at the opposite extreme from Timbaland’s: maximalist instead of minimalist, hitting you over the head instead of subtly insinuating, putting the listener (well, me, at least) in a hysterical state of sensori-motor overload. (And I really do mean that “motor” part: listening to this album on headphones, from my iPod, while sitting on the bus, I can’t exactly dance, but I feel that twitching all through my nervous system, from my ears down to my toes).

Yes, I know. Me and My Brother, by the Ying Yang Twins, is nothing but stupid (stoopid?) party music, heavily misogynistic and relentless in its praise of getting fucked up, wearing its ghetto “authenticity” on its sleeve (not the least through endless repetitions of the n-word), but probably appealing mostly to frat boys. Still, I can’t help myself: I basically ignore the words, but I find the beats infectious. The Twins’ production is at the opposite extreme from Timbaland’s: maximalist instead of minimalist, hitting you over the head instead of subtly insinuating, putting the listener (well, me, at least) in a hysterical state of sensori-motor overload. (And I really do mean that “motor” part: listening to this album on headphones, from my iPod, while sitting on the bus, I can’t exactly dance, but I feel that twitching all through my nervous system, from my ears down to my toes).

This Is Not A Test

Missy Elliott‘s new album, This Is Not A Test, probably isn’t the best thing she’s done. I’d even say it’s the first album she’s done that hasn’t at all surprised me in some way; which implies that she has finally reduced what she is doing to a formula.
Nevertheless, I still like This Is Not A Test. There are the monster beats, courtesy of Timbaland, of course; the best songs on the album are the ones in which the arrangements are most minimal, the beats most spare, and at the same time, most booming (“Pass That Dutch”, “Let It Bump”, “Pump It Up”). The R&B numbers, on the other hand, are relatively weak.
But it’s Missy’s charisma, her “flow” (to use that overused and underdefined hip hop word) that still makes me want to listen, even when I feel that I’ve heard it all before. I mean, it isn’t what she says, so much as how she says it. Even when she’s boasting, her voice remains in a strange way conversational, and matter-of-fact. It promises an impossible intimacy, as if she was best girlfriends with each and every one of her millions of listeners; as if there were some way we could join in the gossip and laughter. It somehow seems the most straightforward and “natural” thing in the world, how she segues from celebrating vibrators and other sex toys in one song, to complaining that sex with her man is no longer as good as it was the first time, to mourning Aaliyah (still) in another. The closest she comes to a message is in “Wake Up,” where she tells black people that it’s OK not to have a gun, not to have a cell phone, not to have to strip for a living. (Oddly, or maybe not, this is the song where Jay-Z, who has made his living by peddling the fantasies that Missy dismisses here, makes his guest appearance – he says he used to think like his friends who ended up in jail, but doesn’t any longer). But all in all, as I already said, it isn’t the words that matter here, but the way that Missy says them, and the rapport she establishes with her listeners thereby. A fiction, of course; a fake utopian vision of the everyday, no doubt. There’s no ecstasy here. But the conjunction of Missy’s voicings, and Timbaland’s beats, set up a resonance that works, and that moves me almost in spite of myself.

Missy Elliott‘s new album, This Is Not A Test, probably isn’t the best thing she’s done. I’d even say it’s the first album she’s done that hasn’t at all surprised me in some way; which implies that she has finally reduced what she is doing to a formula.
Nevertheless, I still like This Is Not A Test. There are the monster beats, courtesy of Timbaland, of course; the best songs on the album are the ones in which the arrangements are most minimal, the beats most spare, and at the same time, most booming (“Pass That Dutch”, “Let It Bump”, “Pump It Up”). The R&B numbers, on the other hand, are relatively weak.
But it’s Missy’s charisma, her “flow” (to use that overused and underdefined hip hop word) that still makes me want to listen, even when I feel that I’ve heard it all before. I mean, it isn’t what she says, so much as how she says it. Even when she’s boasting, her voice remains in a strange way conversational, and matter-of-fact. It promises an impossible intimacy, as if she was best girlfriends with each and every one of her millions of listeners; as if there were some way we could join in the gossip and laughter. It somehow seems the most straightforward and “natural” thing in the world, how she segues from celebrating vibrators and other sex toys in one song, to complaining that sex with her man is no longer as good as it was the first time, to mourning Aaliyah (still) in another. The closest she comes to a message is in “Wake Up,” where she tells black people that it’s OK not to have a gun, not to have a cell phone, not to have to strip for a living. (Oddly, or maybe not, this is the song where Jay-Z, who has made his living by peddling the fantasies that Missy dismisses here, makes his guest appearance – he says he used to think like his friends who ended up in jail, but doesn’t any longer). But all in all, as I already said, it isn’t the words that matter here, but the way that Missy says them, and the rapport she establishes with her listeners thereby. A fiction, of course; a fake utopian vision of the everyday, no doubt. There’s no ecstasy here. But the conjunction of Missy’s voicings, and Timbaland’s beats, set up a resonance that works, and that moves me almost in spite of myself.

Undercurrents

Undercurrents: The Hidden Wiring of Modern Music, edited by Rob Young, is a collection of columns that originally appeared in the music magazine The Wire, dealing with the backgrounds and developments of 20th century experimental music. All in all, I found it a useful volume. If some of the essays are little more than lists strung together with anecdotes, they are at least useful lists. And a number of the essays are truly brilliant and thought-provoking (especially those by Erik Davis, on “the esoteric origins of the phonograph,” Marcus Boon, on the history of drones, Peter Shapiro, on turntablism, and the always insightful David Toop, on a number of subjects .
Still, Undercurrents only intimates, without really discussing, the questions in this realm that most interest me. How important will 20th century experimental currents (whether those of the dadaists and futurists in the first half of the century, or those of John Cage in the second) continue to be in the changed technological and socio-political climate of the 21st? (Might not it be time to leave them all behind?) In what ways are technological experiments with sound charting new, ‘posthuman’ ways of being, or at least possibilities of new perceptions, as Kodwo Eshun argues? What relevance, if any, does the old high/low distinction have in this context (or even the distinction between more fringe and more mainstream pop music, when Timbaland is arguably more experimental – in any meaningful sense of that word – than, say Sonic Youth)? And is there any useful way of hooking up the discussion about formal experimentation with discussions about the socio-cultural dimensions of music, e.g. questions of race in the US? (since both these dimensions are unavoidably important).
I seriously mean all these as open questions, ones I haven’t begun to work out for myself.

Undercurrents: The Hidden Wiring of Modern Music, edited by Rob Young, is a collection of columns that originally appeared in the music magazine The Wire, dealing with the backgrounds and developments of 20th century experimental music. All in all, I found it a useful volume. If some of the essays are little more than lists strung together with anecdotes, they are at least useful lists. And a number of the essays are truly brilliant and thought-provoking (especially those by Erik Davis, on “the esoteric origins of the phonograph,” Marcus Boon, on the history of drones, Peter Shapiro, on turntablism, and the always insightful David Toop, on a number of subjects .
Still, Undercurrents only intimates, without really discussing, the questions in this realm that most interest me. How important will 20th century experimental currents (whether those of the dadaists and futurists in the first half of the century, or those of John Cage in the second) continue to be in the changed technological and socio-political climate of the 21st? (Might not it be time to leave them all behind?) In what ways are technological experiments with sound charting new, ‘posthuman’ ways of being, or at least possibilities of new perceptions, as Kodwo Eshun argues? What relevance, if any, does the old high/low distinction have in this context (or even the distinction between more fringe and more mainstream pop music, when Timbaland is arguably more experimental – in any meaningful sense of that word – than, say Sonic Youth)? And is there any useful way of hooking up the discussion about formal experimentation with discussions about the socio-cultural dimensions of music, e.g. questions of race in the US? (since both these dimensions are unavoidably important). And, how do we situate all these musical developments in the context of the larger McLuhanesque changes in sensibility that “electronic culture,” now in digital form, continues to bring us?
I seriously mean all these as open questions, ones I haven’t begun to work out for myself. Recent books and articles by Eshun, by Simon Reynolds, by Jonathan Sterne (from appearances – I haven’t read it yet), and by Alex Weheliye (warning: may not be accessible except through a college library or some other such gateway) have begun to tackle these questions, but there is still a lot of work to do – not to mention, of course, the continuing inventions by musicians themselves.

Kish Kash

I didn’t immediately fall in love with Basement Jaxx‘ new album Kish Kash the way I did with their previous two albums (Remedy and Rooty). I mean,those were almost perfect pop recaords: taking house and electronic dance in such new directions that they seemed to be entirely original and new, and to fulfill some sort of Platonic ideal of what pop music was supposed to be. But Kish Kash has grown on me with repeated listenings, and now I’m convinced it is as great as anything else Basement Jaxx has done.

I didn’t immediately fall in love with Basement Jaxx‘ new album Kish Kash the way I did with their previous two albums (Remedy and Rooty). I mean,those were almost perfect pop recaords: taking house and electronic dance in such new directions that they seemed to be entirely original and new, and to fulfill some sort of Platonic ideal of what pop music was supposed to be. But Kish Kash has grown on me with repeated listenings, and now I’m convinced it is as great as anything else Basement Jaxx has done.
I think my delayed response has something to do with the new album’s gigantism: it stretches its songs to almost operatic proportions (not in length but in density — i.e. heavier and more densely orchestrated), so that they aren’t as clean and neatly defined and graceful as the songs on the previous albums were. And I usually find that sort of thing annoying, in pop. But what’s converted me this time is the fact that Basement Jaxx do in fact achieve their ambition: the emotions in these songs are larger than life, which means that they are both intense and also strangely frozen (the same sort of distancing effect one gets in good melodrama). The effect is totally gorgeous, and the album covers a lot of ground in terms of different genres, all of which get reflected, amplified, and put onstage, as it were. Basement Jaxx go beyond the house/dance framework of their previous records to a more extensive sort of funk. Indeed, the music recalls both the ambitions and the stylistics of Prince in the 1980s; and if it doesn’t have the dynamic personality of Prince, it does have the dexterity, virtuosity, and range. And as for the personality: the album, as usual, has great guest performers singing for them, most notably Meshell and Dizzee Rascal and Siouxie Sioux (!) (as well as Lisa Kekaula – I don’t know who she is, but she is fabulous).

A Few More Singles

I’ve been so busy lately that I haven’t been posting very much. So I thought I could at least mention some music that I’ve been enjoying recently. There are a number of albums I need to listen to more before I can write about them intelligibly, but I can at least list a few singles that have transported me recently…

I’ve been so busy that I haven’t been posting very much. So I thought I could at least mention some music that I’ve been enjoying recently. There are a number of new albums I need to listen to more before I can write about them intelligibly, but there are a few singles that have transported me lately…
-Kelis’ “Milkshake” is, I suppose, another guilty pleasure. Much more mainstream than “I Hate You So Much Right Now” (not to mention stoopid in its double entendres) but the insinuating dirty bass synthesizer hook (balancing the melodic fragment – it’s too minimal to be a full melody) gets to me. Production by The Neptunes, whose stuff I’ve gotten bored with lately, however here they, er, redeem themselves.
-Cee-Lo’s new single, “I’ll Be Around,” on the other hand, is yet another triumphant production by Mr. Timothy Mosley, aka Timbaland. This time with horns bouncing off the minimal off-beat. The lyrics are a bit tiresome (and old) in their bragging about the “dirty South,” but how can I not fall in love with a song that begins with Mr. Closet Freak intoning: “How could I possibly be inconspicuous/ When my flow is fuckin’ ridiculous”?
-I haven’t heard all of David Banner’s Mississippi: The Album, but “Cadillac on 22s” is gorgeously depressive, movingly desperate and passionate (“sometimes I wish I wasn’t born in the first place”), with guitar that really makes the connection from hip hop to down-home country blues; and the screwed and chopped version is also pretty amazing, slowed down, with a few touches of reverb and stuttering repetition, just enough to mess with the beautiful, lyrical flow of the song so that it sounds like things are even more fucked up than the original version suggested, since you no longer have the beauty to redeem the pain.

Timbaland and Magoo

Though Timbaland is one of the most respected and sucessful hiphop producers working today (the best, I’d argue) the albums he has released under his own name, in collaboration with Magoo, have never sold very well, or been much talked about. Partly because Magoo is poorly regarded as an MC (he’s not great, but in my opinion, he’s at least OK), and partly because – I’m not quite sure, actually. But Timbaland and Magoo’s latest CD, Under Construction Part II, is a superb album, even if nobody buys it. Admittedly it’s not all that interesting vocally and verbally – the lyrics (mostly sex, some drugs, some romantic loss, a reasonable amount of boasting, but very little self-congratulatory thuggery) are nothing we haven’t heard before. But the beats and arrangements are great. The album is fairly relaxed and laid back, but at the same time very sharp and rhythmically active. Timbaland’s arrangements are clean, fairly minimal, and always surprising: the synthesized percussion crackles, and some sort of odd timbre or melodic line is always being dropped just where you don’t expect it. Every song has its own profile and its own surprises. The album works very well as a shifting series of moods, as one or another facet of Timbalan’ds expressive artistry comes into focus.

Though Timbaland is one of the most respected and sucessful hiphop producers working today (the best, I’d argue) the albums he has released under his own name, in collaboration with Magoo, have never sold very well, or been much talked about. Partly because Magoo is poorly regarded as an MC (he’s not great, but in my opinion, he’s at least OK), and partly because – I’m not quite sure, actually. But Timbaland and Magoo’s latest CD, Under Construction Part II, is a superb album, even if nobody buys it. Admittedly it’s not all that interesting vocally and verbally – the lyrics (mostly sex, some drugs, some romantic loss, a reasonable amount of boasting, but very little self-congratulatory thuggery) are nothing we haven’t heard before. But the beats and arrangements are great. The album is fairly relaxed and laid back, but at the same time very sharp and rhythmically active. Timbaland’s arrangements are clean, fairly minimal, and always surprising: the synthesized percussion crackles, and some sort of odd timbre or melodic line is always being dropped just where you don’t expect it. Every song has its own profile and its own surprises. The album works very well as a shifting series of moods, as one or another facet of Timbaland’s expressive artistry comes into focus. (For a very different take on this album, see Sasha Freire-Jones’ comments).

FannyPack

I suppose this counts as a “guilty pleasure,” though I am not usually prone to use that category. I find myself quite enchanted by FannyPack, and their album So Stylistic. FannyPack is two twenty-something guys, Manhattan producers/hipsters, who write and perform the music, and three teenage girls from Brooklyn, all fashionably interracial, who rap (though I don’t know if they write their own lyrics, or if the words are written for them by the two guys).

I suppose this counts as a “guilty pleasure,” though I am not usually prone to use that category. I find myself utterly enchanted by FannyPack, and their album So Stylistic. FannyPack is two (white, I think) twenty-something guys, Manhattan producers/hipsters, who write and perform the music, and three teenage girls (well, they range from 15 to 21) from Brooklyn, fashionably interracial (well, one’s white, one’s half-Puerto Rican, half-Thai, and one’s half-black, half-Indian according to band publicity) who rap in New York accents that are welcome to the ears of this exile. I don’t know if the girls write their own lyrics, or if the words are written for them by the two guys.
There’s something disturbingly pedophiliac about how these underage (or barely of age) girls are ultra-sexualized and made out to be innocent at the same time. Everything about the group seems calculated to play to some middle-aged fantasy (“middle-aged” meaning anybody older than the band members) of what urban teen girls are like.
The lyrics are stuff like: “Parties, movies, candy, toys,/ Clothes, shopping, music, boys,/ Flowers, beaches, Mom and Dad,/ These here things make me glad.” Though there’s also the song about the “Cameltoe,” and the one about sneaking into clubs with fake IDs. One song talks about hating school, another about the importance of good grades.
The music is bouncy, perky, and entirely synthetic party music: snaking synthesizer lines above beats borrowed from salsa, disco, Miami 1980s electro, and lite funk.
This music is so ostentatiously lightweight and “fun”, so unorganic, so stylized, so pre-calculated, so phony even (or especially) in the gestures it makes toward high-school-confidential street authenticity, that I can’t help myself: I love it. It’s airily, mindlessly pleasurable and adorable in a way that makes Britney, Christina, and even Beyonce seem utterly strained and clumsy in comparison. Basically, FannyPack is to these other post-teens-singing-for-pre-teens as Mozart is to Mahler, or as the Sex Pistols are to Bachman-Turner Overdrive.
It seems to me that this is what pop music always ought to be like. The weird part of it is, that although FannyPack was certainly being groomed by Tommy Boy Records for superstardom, the CD was apparently a big flop. Almost nobody bought the album. Is there no justice in the world?

Comfort Woman

In the past, I’ve liked Meshell Ndegeocello‘s more visceral yet outgoing, angry, and political albums – like Cookie: The Anthropological Mixtape – better than I have her more inward-looking, personal albums – such as Bitter, which was, I guess, not funky enough and too Lilith Fair-like for my taste (OK, so perhaps I’m more of a stereotypical guy than I like to think I am). But her new album, Comfort Woman, seems to me the best of both worlds. It’s a quiet album, made mostly of love songs. It’s even happy, optimistic, and upbeat for the most part – as Bitter was not. Yet despite my resistance to music in such a mode, Comfort Woman entirely wins me over. The album performs the rare feat of conveying a (non-ecstatic, or non-orgasmic) joy without being lulling. And this is all on account of the way it moves. The album is deeply funky, albeit without the hard edge of Cookie and some of Meshell’s other records. (I’d like to just call it “deep funk,” by analogy with “deep house”). Under the melodies, which are mostly gentle, there is a lot of roiling and seething rhythm. Not harsh or aggressive, but deeply – alive. Cross-rhythms percolate in some songs, an off-center beat pulls you along in others, a potent dub energizes others. Not to mention the best song on the album, “Liliquoi Moon,” which introduces the one note of negativity in the album – “death’ll come fast, I want to be free, closer to the sky” – but even this negativity is lyrical and strangely hopeful – “I want to fly” – and then the song concludes with an intense hendrixesque raveup guitar solo by Doyle Bramhall II. All in all, Comfort Woman is riveting; all the more so, perhaps, for the way it sneaks up on you, delivering on promises you didn’t even realize it had made.

In the past, I’ve liked Meshell Ndegeocello‘s more visceral yet outgoing, angry, and political albums – like Cookie: The Anthropological Mixtape – better than I have her more inward-looking, personal albums – such as Bitter, which was, I guess, not funky enough and too Lilith Fair-like for my taste (OK, so perhaps I’m more of a stereotypical guy than I like to think I am). But her new album, Comfort Woman, seems to me the best of both worlds. It’s a quiet album, made mostly of love songs. It’s even happy, optimistic, and upbeat for the most part – as Bitter was not. Yet despite my resistance to music in such a mode, Comfort Woman entirely wins me over. The album performs the rare feat of conveying a (non-ecstatic, or non-orgasmic) joy without being lulling. And this is all on account of the way it moves. The album is deeply funky, albeit without the hard edge of Cookie and some of Meshell’s other records. (I’d like to just call it “deep funk,” by analogy with “deep house”). Under the melodies, which are mostly gentle, there is a lot of roiling and seething rhythm. Not harsh or aggressive, but deeply – alive. Cross-rhythms percolate in some songs, an off-center beat pulls you along in others, a potent dub energizes others. Not to mention the best song on the album, “Liliquoi Moon,” which introduces the one note of negativity in the album – “death’ll come fast, I want to be free, closer to the sky” – but even this negativity is lyrical and strangely hopeful – “I want to fly” – and then the song concludes with an intense hendrixesque raveup guitar solo by Doyle Bramhall II. All in all, Comfort Woman is riveting; all the more so, perhaps, for the way it sneaks up on you, delivering on promises you didn’t even realize it had made.