Michael On Everything

Brand New, You’re Retro

Last month, Africans and African–Americans showed us the future, but this month spotlights a curious smattering of folkie types whose music (if not lyrical approaches) wouldn’t have been entirely out of place in the ’70s. Given there’s no real pattern informing what I listen to from month to month, I can’t really claim that “means” anything, but I will say this: the year’s best albums continue to be from women. Can you blame me for sneaking that dickhead Eminem in the thumbnail?

album cover, Antologia Vol. 2, by Africa Negra.

África Negra: Antologia Vol. 2 (Bongo Joe) The pride of the island nation of São Tomé and Príncipe, this long–running ensemble’s specialty, puxa, translates to either the third person singular of the verb puxar (“to pull”), or the definition I prefer, an interjection, which depending on the context can convey bewilderment, displeasure, or remorse. So props to the Swiss label Bongo Joe for their continued exploration of this 372–square mile country’s musical output, the second for this band — where the first volume basically functioned as a best–of culled mostly from their brief heyday in the ’80s, this sequel is more of a mixed bag, rescuing early recordings and cassette–only rarities, but disparities in fidelity notwithstanding, the quality control remains so high you won’t be able to distinguish between the “hits” and the obscurities, the songs showcasing the “classic” lineup and the ones featuring their replacements. Musically, their output resembles a speedier soukous, lithe and sprightly, with both guitar and bass played high on the fretboard, the drums and percussion lightfooted, the rhythms cheerful and jaunty. Still working out an agreement for the transfer of sovereignty when they formed in the late ’70s, colonial killjoys, apprehensive in the face of any show of black pride, forced the band to change their original, rightful moniker to something more banal: Girasol (or “Sunflower”). In 2023, when primary lead vocalist “General” João Seria passed away at the age of 74, the state honored his life and music with an official funeral. A–Grade: A–

album cover, The Great American Bar Scene, by Zach Bryan

Zach Bryan: The Great American Bar Scene (Belting Bronco⁄Warner) Not to be a moralist, but one lonesome Friday night Bryan will cheerfully greet the woman on the stool next to him with an “It’s good to see you’re still in a bar band, baby,” she’ll tell him, “It’s great to see you’re still in the bars,” and he will think long and hard about why he’s always wiped out every weekend by Sunday morning. Until then, we have this collection of loosely plotted short stories disguised as songs, which seems to be confusing country outsiders — having sparked their fancy with his anthemic, self–titled 2023 breakthrough, this more pensive follow–up has young neophytes so desperate for context that Pitchfork’s Claire Shaffer and Main Street’s more markedly half–assed Abby Audenino adduced Morgan Wallen, Tyler Childers, and Colter Wall, in the same order. The universally cited Saint Bruce is the obvious frame of reference, but before you start parading those gushing Nebraska comparisons, consider that very good record was more entertaining to read Greil Marcus bloviate on than listen to. Still, although Bryan makes the mistake of stretching this to 63 minutes rather than Springsteen's more economical 40, this rides a steadier, more reliable beat — “State Trooper” with “I’m on Fire”’s arrangement, let’s say. As for Bryan’s alleged “corniness” (once again, multiple reviews — stop being such internet sponges, people), like his exemplar, if he sentimentalizes anything, it’s a certain masculine, working class stoicism, take it or leave it. Springsteen’s highway patrolman dispassionately watched the headlights of his ne’er–do–well brother’s car disappear over the Canadian border. Bryan’s updated version ends with a stark (if carelessly worded) warning: “I got bad blood with some blood out on Oak Island⁄And if he stays I say I am bound to find him.” B+Grade: B+

Madi Diaz: Weird Faith (Anti–) Telescoping into an emotionally fraught 3:28 the exact moment preceding a sexual consummation in which gambling with emotional vulnerability feels something like impending doom, the opener “Same Risk” couldn’t have been more devastating if Diaz had yoked its delicately spare melody to a wrecking ball. Even more miraculously, in an age in which pop music fans define confessional peril as a perky ingénue who dares to reveal intimate details of her inconsequential celebrity flings, this Los Angeles singer–songwriter nails specifics, from negotiating boundaries with her new man’s ex to imagining a future pregnancy in which she relishes ordering him around “like a bitch.” As you might expect from a woman who memorializes her “Obsessive Thoughts” in song and insists on handling most of the instruments herself, her issue is a need for a control she’s not sure she can give up. Give her credit however for abandoning the mannered folkiness of her 2021 album like Joni transitioning from Clouds to Ladies of the Canyon — I’d like to think touring with Harry Styles has given her a taste for the commercial breakthrough she so richly deserves. In fact, the songwriting is so uniformly strong that not only won’t you be able to pinpoint the Lori McKenna co–write without consulting the liner notes, the duet with Kacey Musgraves — who would make records this good if she were braver — doesn’t even rank in the fiftieth percentile. AGrade: A

album cover, The Death of Slim Shady (Coup de Grâce), by Eminem

Eminem: The Death of Slim Shady (Coup de Grâce) (Shady⁄Aftermath⁄Interscope) I’m ashamed to admit I initially half–sided with the puritans who have turned this supposed farewell into this genius’s worst reviewed album, but eventually I capitulated, because I am a horrible person. Also, because I’m a sucker for persuasive beats, painfully convoluted irony, devil–may–care displays of verbal dexterity, and unsparing attacks on Candace Owens and Sean Combs, who deserve worse punishments in this lifetime than getting deir wittle feewings hurt. Perhaps more important, the once and apparently permanently future Marshall Mathers and I have something in common: as children we were both targets of schoolyard bullying (maybe being dragged into a open sewer while being called a “f–ggot” doesn't equal watching neighborhood kids stab your uncle for attempting to rescue your bicycle, but as they say in therapy, don't compare your traumas). As he makes clear from the outset, nursing psychological wounds by lashing out with insults parallels indulging in booze, pills, or even MAGA cruelty: the short–term rush they provide makes them difficult habits to give up. Which is the main reason his first album since 2013’s slept–on MMLP2 to unpack his hyperactive id–ego–superego is also his best since then — most of the half–hearted targets of his twisted wit, from Christopher Reeves [sic] (in 2024?) to little people (Randy Newman must be proud) are chosen precisely for their absurdity, because the main subject of his approbation is himself, or maybe you, as in the tellingly thematic: “Why can’t you make fun of people behind their back like a normal person?” And though his B–list guest stars disappoint as always (guess Em feels like he owes Skylar Grey for infecting her with Hepatitis A), I’ll take outrageous asides like “That’s gay (What’s wrong with that?)⁄And not the good kind of gay either (What?)⁄Where two men fuck each other and hate beaver (Whoa!)” as signs of spiritual growth. How seriously can one take such brazenly unprecedented (and absolutely hilarious) one–liners as “Fuck my own kids, they’re brats?” Especially since his obligatory parental apology song turns out to be his most uncommonly direct and confessional ever, most notably to adopted, non–binary Stevie — who he refuses to deadname? A–Grade: A–

album cover, Hiddo Dhawr, by Sahra Halgan

Sahra Halgan: Hiddo Dhawr (Preserve Culture) Halgan, or “The Fighter,” was not the surname Sahra Ahmed Mohamoud was born with — it was given to her by soldiers during the Somali Civil War. A natural singer and performer raised in a repressive culture that discourages women from self–expression, she found a paradoxical liberation in wartime: “At the front, I was finally free. The soldiers had other things to do than forbid me to sing.” Or, as she noted to The Telegraph (she really does have a gift for the pull quote): “We didn’t have nothing at that time — no painkillers, no antibiotics…the song becomes the medical supplies, it becomes the army, it’s everything.” She didn’t stop when dictator Mohammed Siad Barre fled the country, either — after re–settling in Lyon, making ends meet through work in cleaning and home care, she formed a band with three French musicians who must not have known what a tough cookie they were hooking up with. On their second album together, 2019’s solid Waa Dardaaran, you can hear them occasionally “expressing themselves,” but here they clearly bend to her vision: Aymeric Krol simplifies his drum kit, guitarist Maël Saletes focuses predominantly on the bass register, and keyboardist Régis Monte, replacing self–indulgent noodler Graham Mushnik, coaxes a grungy low end from vintage organs as thick as the exhaust from a Citroën 2CV. The cumulative effect illuminates how much the harmonic modes of Tuareg rock resemble those of the Doors — except in this case when the Lizard King boasts she can “do anything,” her lacertilian achievements include tending to injured freedom fighters in her war–torn homeland while toting a gun. Her in–laws have apparently warmed up to her career choices, but they still ask when she’ll step away from the microphone to focus solely on motherhood. You wonder why they even bother. A–Grade: A–

Ice Spice: Y2K! (10K Projects⁄Capitol) Although I know in my heart this mixed race Bronxite conceives her abbreviated song structures — ten tracks in 23:17, with the shortest clocking in at 1:56 — with Tik Tok–addled attention spans in mind, the exhilarating liberation from mainstream pop tedium they deliver is pure Ramones, right down to the putative puerility of the lyrical content. More specifically, the general level of id–driven anarchy recalls a cherished antecedent, Nicki Minaj’s world historic, trash–talking conniption fit “Stupid Hoe,” which many an uptight internet scribe has dubbed one of the worst singles of our time, yet which appears to have provided twenty–four year old hell–raising cutie pie and self–proclaimed “marketing genius” Isis Naija Gaston with both a persona and a sacred life mission. She couldn’t have done it without simpatico GarageBand maestro Ephrem Louis Lopez, Jr., d⁄b⁄a RiotUSA, who provides his big bad grrlboss with a suitably dank aural canvas replete with scuzzy low end, glitchy sound effects, and enough digital klaxons to spiral a PSTD–torn veteran into a wartime flashback (or as Gaston pleads teasingly at the beginning of almost every track: “Stop playing with ’em, Riot!”). But note that she strategically meets his challenge with consonsant–heavy wordslinging, delivered in pure New Yawk brogue, simultaneously aggressisve and playful, employing, to choose a completely random example, the highly percussive word “bitch” a grand total of thirteen times in the intriguingly titled “Phat Butt.” Which inevitably leads me to the aforementioned lyrical content, and what can I say — if you're not tickled by the timeless smackdown “Think U The Shit” (“You’re not even the fart”) the deep, meaningful discography of Gordon Lightfoot awaits you. A–Grade: A–

album cover, Bright Future, by Adrianne Lenker

Adrianne Lenker: Bright Future (4AD) Although it would be foolish of me to gainsay the power of 2022’s remarkable Dragon New Warm Mountain I Believe In You, Lenker’s primary hustle isn’t necessarily the optimal vehicle for her uncommon artistic gifts. I hesitate to call someone with such evident resilience, conviction, and inner strength “timid,” but when I caught Big Thief at the Moore Theatre in 2019, a verbal outburst from the audience spooked her so badly that she left the stage without returning for an encore. Yet her more “intimate” side projects have lacked the courage, focus, and commitment that have made her band’s recent work so compelling. In these twelve songs in 43 minutes however, the unadorned music is so exquisite, so imbued with grace, the result feels less like songs than incantations, a delicate pact between the lepidopterist and the butterfly: once he promises to set aside the threat of pins and mounting boards, tweezers and shadow boxes, she will open her wings to him and give up her secrets. Linking environmental catastrophe to the devastation of personal heartbreak might seem like histrionic overstatement from any other songwriter, but her kindness, composure, and plainspoken language temper her penchant for bold metaphors, as when she embraces the tenderness of a shared fleeting moment: “This whole world is dying⁄Don’t it seem like a good time for swimming⁄Before all the water disappears?” With sympathetic friends occasionally adding guitar and piano — no percussion, any disruption from the outside world would break the spell — you start to notice odd ambient sounds creaking beneath her voice, the whirr of a tape machine beginning to warm up. Were those effects intentional? “Mistakes” that sounded so pleasing to her ear she kept them in? Thing is, when the music is this magical, you never can tell. A+Grade: A+

album cover, Ghosterbusters, by the Jeffrey Lewis

Jeffrey Lewis: Ghosterbusters (self–released EP) The anti−folk Renaissance man moves at such a clip that I’m taking a risk reviewing a five−song EP that’s evolved in form four times over the last six months, amending newly recorded tracks onto a standalone January 2024 single. But this time around I can’t resist a delightful title song bemoaning online dates who won’t return your texts, replete with a cover portraying Jeffrey as a rebuffed slimer, though I’m moved to ask: if you parody a Ray Parker Jr. classic nicked from Huey Lewis, from whom should you expect the eventual cease−and−desist letter? In fact, there’s so much fair use provocation at work here, the rationale for his unorthodox streaming rollout makes a certain sense — yes, The Great Gatsby did recently enter the public domain, but not the fourteen gems, rhinestones, and paste copies Lewis gives the Stars on 45 treatment in the must–hear “The History of the Development of Punk on the Lower East Side of New York City, 1950–1975” (a debatable roll call, but at least he doesn’t have to worry about a visit from copyright lawyers representing the Estate of David Peel). The two remaining songs are more personal, more introspective, and suggest that Lewis, who claims he lost his “honey” due to Trump–era anxiety, could use some happy news — a more viable Democratic presidential candidate, say. Until then, enjoy the current iteration of what I’ll playfully dub a “living work” — you know, like Leaves of Grass? There you go, Jeffrey, Kamala and Walt: fodder for your pre−election re−release special. A–Grade: A–

album cover, #RICHAXXHAITIAN, by Mach-Hommy

Mach-Hommy: #RICHAXXHAITIAN (self-released) In a manner similar to but less playful than MF Doom, he’s pathologically protective of both his identity and his government name, which means that should the New York Times profile this talented albeit cranky Haitian-American, they might be forced to refer to him as “Mr. –Hommy.” More distressing is an unforgivable business model which gouges fans — he limits his physical product to small, exorbitantly–priced runs, siccing the Digital Millennium Copyright Act on any website that dares transcribe his lyrics, which given the depth of his historical and cultural references, the complexity of his wordplay, and occasional sprinklings of Creole, makes it frustrating for those who crave in–depth analysis. For example, what are his precise feelings about Kanye West, about whose fifth album he notes (translating into Pig Latin lest I require a phalanx of lawyers), “Ymay Eautifulbay Arkday Istedtwday Antasyfay asway ikelay aay etusfay onway aay aytray?” Who knows — after five admittedly pleasurable listens I’ve resigned myself to enjoying his verbal gymnastics from line to line, not exactly a hardship given the consistently pleasurable music. Note however that with the exception of Kaytranada’s work on the catchy title track, his producers settle for stimulating rather than compelling, relying on bargain basement obscurities ranging from Minnesota psychedelic rockers The Calico Wall (whose entire recorded output boils down to two ’45s), to footnote–to–a–footnote Ralfi Page, who in the early ’70s apparently released four albums on the NY–based salsa–soul imprint Fania, but wasn’t noteworthy enough to have been included on that label’s 2011 retrospective. In other words, sources so arcane (or dead) you can’t imagine them suing — they aren’t even credited in the physical package. So while this record is too appealing not to give the proverbial seal of approval, Mr. –Hommy, from one stubborn cult artist to another, may I gently suggest: try a little outreach, some compromise. It might do you a world of good. A–Grade: A–

album cover, Am I Okay?, by Megan Moroney

Megan Moroney: Am I Okay? (Columbia Nashville) Modern producers have perfected the science of the catchy song so expertly that I sometimes approach particularly effective purveyors with suspicion. Where’s the surprise of a chord change or melodic turn that you haven’t heard before? Isn’t there a more daring way to wind me up than to put Pachelbel’s Canon in D through yet another go–round? Yet even if you subscribe to the notion that in country music formula is part of the appeal, this Douglasville, Georgia native who broke through with a song about wearing a Tennessee college football jersey for her boyfriend (not an orange prison jumpsuit? disappointing!) would still distinguish herself. First, unlike the majority of her peers, many of whom might have put in time as doe–eyed coffeehouse folkies in the early ’60s, she sings with a slight rasp, so distinctive that I excitedly nudged my girlfriend in recognition in the Seattle AMC while she was trying to concentrate on watching Twisters. Second, song doctors or not, she’s a huge fan of John Prine, whose debut album alone strikes me as a more fruitful creative writing course than a spell at the Iowa Writer’s Workshop. The songs here aren’t quite on a par with her excellent 2023 debut, but considering it’s only been a year, this ain’t a bad haul. I wish her subjects expanded beyond the men who have failed her — even her celebration of “The Girls” is rooted in friends who exist mainly to support each other through breakups, and if she thinks her ex dating “Miss Universe” is an “upgrade,” she’s reading the wrong self–help books. But I’ll definitely take the hilarious prelude–to–a–restraining–order “Man on the Moon,” which concerns itself neither with Mott the Hoople nor the Game of Life and gives new meaning to the phrase “he needs space.” A–Grade: A–

album cover, Utopia, Now!, by Rosie Tucker

Rosie Tucker: Utopia Now! (Sentimental) In terms of studied songcraft — not merely basic tunes yoked to workaday strumming, but meticulously laid out chord progressions buttressing well−constructed melodies that actually go somewhere — this fixture of the Los Angeles music scene is a major talent. Impressive lyricist, too — in the first track alone, the fancy SmartBulb that takes ages to update serves as an intricate, extended metaphor, first for the creative struggle, then for the commodification of artists who are maximized for demand until the filament burns out. Yet even with Tucker hilariously justifying such improbable title conceits as “All My Exes Live in Vortexes” and “Gil Scott Albatross,” this isn’t quite as fully realized as 2021’s Sucker Supreme, originally the first of a three−album deal with Epitaph, who unceremoniously rescinded their offer via email a few months after its release. Tucker remains as witty and cutting as ever, but bitterness has understandably tapped their reserves — scratch underneath the pervasive environmental and anti–capitalist rhetoric and you’ll find barely veiled allusions to conflicts both personal and professional. Even the title demand refers not to Thomas Moore’s idealized society but to sating one’s rapacious sexual desire because achieving equanimity is off the table. Perhaps that explains why this time around I find Tucker winningest at their most direct: the painfully playful “Suffer! Like You Mean It,” an entreaty to a former paramour to eat their words first and “masticate me” second, and “Unending Bliss,” a backsliding Christian’s benison to their enemies. Hard to believe they have any, truthfully. A–Grade: A–

album cover, Willson Williams, by Kathryn Williams & Withered Hand

Kathryn Williams & Withered Hand: Willson Williams (One Little Independent) When I’m feeling contrary, I think Dan Willson should have taken his title joke all the way and reached out to Chynna Phillips, who would at least have convinced him to pick up the tempo on each of these songs by at least 10 bpm (she also would have entreated the ex–Jehovah’s Witness to punctuate every line with a fervent exultation to Jesus, but that’s neither here nor there). Yet although I accept my recent withdrawal from prescribed ADHD meds is neither Dan nor Kathryn’s problem, I wish this record’s main draw was (no, not that admittedly chipper Cat Stevens cover) something snappier than a sophisticated variation on the George and Tammy template — eleven concise if slightly moony pop songs shouldn’t take multiple listens to kick in. Yet if like me you are a sucker for such shameless harmonic tricks as the climb to the flatted seventh on “Grace” (“I missed what was in front of my face”) or the delicate nonsense syllables that flutter about as Elvis leaves the building, this will win you over eventually. No patience necessary: the hilarious “R U 4 Real,” in which Dan apologizes to Kathryn for not packing like a pachyderm, and the herky–jerky “Big Nothing,” which for those of us waving oversized foam fingers in the cheap seats has a giant hook. Also kind of extraordinary: when they’re not joining their voices but simply rendering the melody, Dan and Kathryn sing in the same octave. J.D. Vance, cover your ears. B+Grade: B+

Honorable Mentions

Duds

album cover, Louis in London, by Louis Armstrong

Louis Armstrong: Louis in London (Verve) Before you accuse the pharoah of succumbing to extreme cardiac fibrosis, consider that five tracks from this long–shelved 1968 concert also figure into Sony’s immortal 16 Most Requested Songs, where they are more exuberantly played and more affectionately sung — here, you’ll roll your eyes at the practiced schtick with trombonist Tyree Greene on “Rockin’ Chair,” but on that version, recorded ten years earlier with Jack Teagarden, you’ll laugh out loud. I suppose there’s a documentary value in hearing an adoring BBC audience actually clapping on the offbeat, even if the ditty bringing their palms together is “Hello Dolly.” But unless you feel a need to hear Pops indulging the jewel–rattlers with “You'll Never Walk Alone” or “The Bare Necessities” on either black, blue, red, or translucent green vinyl, say nay. B− Grade: B−

Yaya Bey: Ten Fold (Big Dada) Intellectually, I appreciate that neo−soul sometimes indulges a “post−song” aesthetic, but while the nimble bass playing of Butcher Brown’s Andrew Randazzo does make an impression, Bey’s (no, not that Bey, I mean this one) backing tracks sound way too much like “interludes” from a more conventional R&B record extended to three minutes. If you think I’m being harsh, compare this to 2022’s slightly more beatwise Remember Your North Star, where her melodies meander less if not necessarily coalesce into fully formed ideas. More enticingly to critics however, this album comes attached to a back story: the recent death of her father, which without question gives a forthright young woman a license to ruminate. If only her coping mechanisms were a little more relatable than “Eating oysters at the Paris stop⁄Copping Gucci at the vintage shop.” C+ Grade: C+

Michael On Everything

A Downloader’s Diary (54)

August 2024

Brand New, You’re Retro

Honorable Mentions

Duds