OK. Another truth with a smidge of selfloathing (but only a a tiny bit. It’s not really loathing if it’s rooted in truth, right?) – in general, I don’t trust lesbians to make music. I know. A big, bad, broad statement. And yes, you have many holes you can poke into this argument. But look, really look at your music catalog and see how many you can find that make radical, timeless, broadly appealing music. Yeah, it starts to thin out pretty quickly. Add in the constant cader of two bit acts that rely on estrogen anthems and a lilith fair of unshaven legs and you’ve got a crowded market of mediocrity. It doesn’t help that the “queer” market still supports this consistent underachieving (check out the music at a Pride festival, I dare you). All in all, I’ve been tough on the ladies because the ladies haven’t been tough enough on themselves. So it comes to utter surprise that there are a few hardworking gals out there (AND, again, the bay area is playing conduit to all this hard work) that are putting out some decent cuts. Granted, there best track, “Eleven”, takes heavily from the tUnE-yArDs playbook and most of their sound thereafter is pretty standard singer-songwriter fare (there’s that hyphen bearing word again..). Nevertheless, it’s a feat that they can bring such disparate styles together – Thao, rooted in rock and blues, scratchy voice and all; Mirah, all soft edges and introspection – with consistent quality. I think it helps that they seem to be equally comfortable taking the reigns of songwriting duty and differing to each other’s strengths. Most importantly, there is a noticeable lack in pandering lyrical content which is often the most aggravating aspect of queer musicianship. And maybe I’m giving them more credit than is due as I’m dragging their personal life to the forefront. But this album has already stood strong in my collection for over 6 months with no signs of let down.

Eccentricity. What’s not to love?! Sure, anyone can come up with a slightly off hand band name, push further into excess with an even odder presentation of the name, and then a crazy sound to boot. Take this for example. But few can pull this off with ease and grace. And subtlety. I know, not quite what one should expect from an album with “kill” in it. But there it is – choice, intention, space – saddling up to experimentation like they belong. And making a good show of it. Yes, I am spending way too much time to say that this will probably be one of my favorite records of the year. So kill me.

First, and this is a big first, I still struggle with how all of these sounds can come from 1) one person and 2) a woman. Nope, this isn’t a self loathing, sexist statement. Rather, an admission that my preconceived notions of possibility have been shattered by Merrill and her loops. That voice. What is it? Seriously, I had to watch videos of her live performances to prove that it was indeed her and not a dub of some male ’80s singer with an aggressive high range. I’ve never heard that timber from a female singer. Ever. Like never ever. It still takes me a few songs in to realize she covers all of the singing. It’s so…oddly familiar. And yet still disarming. Nevertheless, I like it. A lot. She uses her vocals to affect emotion and power better than most. Then the production takes over. In the same vein of Menomena, she takes her work personally. No need to collaborate when you already have a strong ear. Lots of attention placed on the arrangements – full, lively, and purposeful. Everything in balance without seeming over-thought. The added idiosyncratic touches (an extra blip here, cutting out the instruments to let her vocals wail for a bit, etc.) solidify the bedroom studio feel and endear you ever more. It all sounds so wild – uninhibited, driving, surprising. And replays well. Don’t look now, but I may actually be becoming a fan of Bay Area music. And maybe you will be too…

The most striking feature of Wounded Rhymes is that it sounds complete from the first listen. It’s well produced, rich, and inviting. But has enough complexity and looseness to not lose it’s freshness on repeat. The album easily hearkens to the ’60s/’70s without taking on the task of becoming an homage. Fuzz, organs, harmonies, and reverb are all in ample proportion throughout. Lykke Li’s usually wistful delivery lands on the  meatier end of the spectrum, full of experience, pallor, and bite.  It’s a dangerous turn to take – leaving the levity of youth for age always feels like you can hang yourself on unnecessary weight. Here, Li avoids these traps by wrapping it all in driving rhythms and lyrical integrity. Nothing sounds too efforted or effortless. Everything in it’s right place really. And at 10 songs, she keeps you wanting more at the end. It’s a very ambitious line to take and I’m glad she took it. And I hope this sense of adventure continues well into the future.

Shut up, Dude starts with obvious hits “Who’s That? Brown!”, “You Oughta Know”  and “Pizza Hut”, and sets up a lengthy but skillful mixtape of old school nods and pop culture non sequitors. They meander from song to song with no point in sight. I applaud the “rhyme for rhyme sake” ethos, but it loses steam after  about 8 songs and becomes fairly repetitive (or at least bland). Nothing horrible, but the exceptional peaked early. Even if the songs are free, a well edited release still makes for a better listen than a grab bag of everything you’ve ever rhymed slung together. Sit Down, Man shows marked improvement for thematic structure and even some improvement in the production. Less hook laden than the former, but much more satisfying. Which gives me hope that the joke is not on me for actually liking these guys. They are a train wreck in every show – purposefully – bouncing between being enamored with tricking the world into believing that they are real MCs and being bored by rehashing each song on a nightly basis. And for that, shame on me for even trying to support this mess: if they don’t want to take themselves somewhat seriously, why should I? But it IS refreshing to get references to Maya Angelou’s bubble butt (again, try not to giggle) and hearing a reinterpretation of the Days of Our Lives theme.

If you can handle the obsession with pop culture, literati references and an absolute lack of editing, give these guys a shot. I am. And probably will until the next ivy league educated rap group comes around.

Nostalghia is bent on proving that they are a serious band making serious music. The 10 tracks that comprise I am Robot form a distinctive electronic voice – highly produced, a touch dramatic, and sometimes fraught with tension. And while the production is quality, it seems to be too much too often. There is a lot going on in each song. And it’s not all extraneous. But instead of being expansive, it feels bogged down by trying to be “important”. I found myself often repeating “lighten up”! All of the added clicks,hisses, drums, squeals, piano tinkers, accordions, etc. all made for a heavy landscape of sound. This combined with Ciscandra Nostalghia’s voice provided a heavy handed solution to their artistic vision.

Let’s take a moment now to discuss that voice – her voice switches from the stark, accented singing mastered by Fever Ray/The Knife with a somewhat more baudy, lush burlesquey tamber. It’s an odd combination. I often wished Ciscandra would pick one and stick with it. And hopefully not the one that tends to go towards the shallow, “baby-talk” element that creeps in. It felt put on and insincere. I do think she has an instrument to work with, I just wish it wasn’t so overworked.

As a debut, I Am Robot will easily find supporters in the landscape of female driven electronic soundscape art. I think this group has plenty of room to grow, but have a lot of growing to do.

The album is indisputably phenomenal. It’s an achievement. No doubt. However, it does not convert me. I still see exceptional flaws in his work. Flaws that are broad and frankly mystifying given he is “the voice of a generation”. Yes, it is that voice that I take most exception to. No matter how well he cloaks himself in epic production – and Twisted Fantasy runs long on largeness – I can’t help but hear his limited ability as a rapper. He has shown some improvement on a few albums, but nowhere near the MVP status that is often attributed to his works. Furthermore, his lyrical content shifts decisively between 2 subjects: his asshole nature and his sorrow for being an asshole. Thus, the finished product is a beautifully constructed broken record. I can see how people can get hung up on the production value as a means to relating to his work. But the idol worship of his catalog and status in overall pop culture as the great tastemaker (when in fact, he has been more of great regurgitater) will continue to be lost on me.

But it is a memorable album. If for no other reason than Kanye pushed the overdrive button on the mixer. It is a shining symbol of maximalist tendencies, that works more often than not. More samples, more beats, more collaborations. All working in concert to build this gargantuan, ruthless, overflowing jumble of sound that ends in a sprint – breathless, excited and agitated. And it is good. A miracle really. And I recognize it as such. For this, I can’t help but keep turning to it. Waiting for a seminal moment of inception where “the turn” will occur and the album will show it’s true self as genius work. But I’m not holding my breathe. And for the time being, I’ll relegate it to aural tease instead of indisputable pleasure.

Typical. How many times can we keep extoling the virtues of the best thing to come out of Atlanta since…Atlanta? Well, if either member of Outkast keeps on creating consistent heat, there’s nothing else to do but call it fire.

Big Boi has been working hard as of late. What with his record label, some guest work with a certain other Atlantan, and general hilarity on his blog (take this post for example). Oh, and he decided to throw out an album. Tried to do a couple of songs with his other half, but that got squashed. So how did the finished product end up? I’d say shooting for the best hip hop album of 2010 (or any year) is not a bad idea when you’re the son of Chico Dusty. The devil is in the details once again as the flow, lyricism and wit take center stage on another woozy drive around 285. Big Boi has perfected his regional sound while still maintaining a nuance that begs you to listen for more. I mean, he made the Grand March from Aida into East Side stompin music.  That takes guts AND skill. Furthermore, he is one of the few artists that rarely gets upstaged on his own album on spite of the rampent guest appearances. Bring on T.I., Jamie Foxx and anyone else you care to remember. Good additions but never quite like the star.

Now, I haven’t yet said my piece on Kanyevil so I will resist the comparisons of what a real rap album can do for hip hop. However, it is to be noted that it is terribly nice to have a rapper who can actually rap well. Just sayin.

Now, I came to Bilal late in the game. And still don’t have a fine reason why anyone should merely stumble on his work. It’s not that it isn’t good. It’s just not easily accesible, teetering on niche driven on over half of the tracks. There are no obvious hits, the hooks run thin, and his voice is pretty distinctive. And I like it. 2010 was a great year for forward thinking  R&B/jazz/soul artists. I get hope that these oddity albums that are marginally successful in critical circles will somehow filter there way down through the chain and hit mass music (aren’t we but a few beats away from a Kanye West sample after all…). Airtight’s Revenge shares such similarity with Erykah Badu’s later works that it’s easy to cast it as kissing cousin and let it lie as a secondary, masculine version. Which deprives it of the respect it deserves. Although my enthusiasm for the album wanes after 6 or so tracks, those first 5 are gripping. Intelligent, unique, and down right memorable. It’s a headphones type of album, so invest in a good pair if you need to. Lyrically, it falls off the deep end (as Erykah is also prone to do) but saves itself by being honest. Thus, the cliche becomes less shallow and more frank.  Did I mention that it’s just plain nice to have so much fresh black music?  All in all, I can not give this a resounding seal of the highest approval, but it is terribly interesting. So give it a whirl, let it sit for a bit, come back in a couple of months, and see if you still like it, no?

Treats –  

Treats seems like such a predictable format – hip hop with grungy guitars and sing song rock lyrics. Danceable, yet not dance. Anthemic yet accessible. Blah, blah, blah. All of this hype which may work for others, but doesn’t sound anything new to me. I swear I heard this album in 1994 by the Beastie Boys. Only done better. I’m sure there are those that will claim that this is a revelation and a revolution. I think it’s a bit of fun that gets very repetitive. I imagine these two are great live. But like Vampire Weekend, I don’t see this as life changing stuff. Or even year changing work. I know I am in the minority on this, but hey, that’s why I’m a minority.