Staunch defender of her previous two releases (MDNA and Rebel Heart), I am supremely underwhelmed with the two songs released from Madame X, Madonna’s upcoming new album. The saturation of autotune aside, both tracks lay flat, delivering none of the Madonna mastery I’m used to: songcraft.
“Medellin” is breezy enough, but really a piffle – cute as cafe
background noise, forgettable once it’s over (and dueting with the
grotesque, misogynistic hack Meluma doesn’t help).
“I Rise” should have been bold and anthemic, but instead is musically chintzy, with neither memorable hook nor melody. And that she wrote it as a rallying cry for marginalized people and as a way to commemorate the 50th Anniversary of Stonewall, the genesis of the Pride movement, makes it all the more frustrating that it’s not the clarion call the Queen of the Gays (as I like to call her) could have delivered. It doesn’t soar – it just floats, lazily along, until it doesn’t.
But, I won’t let any of this deter me. Madam X was influenced by Madonna living in Lisbon, Portugal, according to the press release, and celebrates her love affair with Latin music and culture and global influences. That alone intrigues me. I won’t let my distaste for these two tracks dictate my anticipation for the full album, which drops June 14th.
Without much commentary (these aren’t full reviews, after all, rather succinct/impetuous – depending on who you ask – musings), I’m always loathe to list my favorites in any particular order – I’ve lived with each of these albums more than any other throughout the year, so it’s hard to commit to such a limited inventory. So take the order of the listing merely as what pops into my head while typing. Save for the first three of four, which if I had to choose would be my Top 3 or 4, all equally warrant your attention. (Same can be said for the shit way below.)
Baker’s Dozen Plus: My Favorite Albums of 2012
LOUDON WAINWRIGHT III Older Than My Old Man Now The ghosts surround Wainwright on his latest collection; the ghosts of his old man, the specter of a former sex life, the ectoplasm of his failed marriages and the brokenness of his relationship with his children, and the ghost of mortality itself. With his only peers probably Dylan and Cohen – though his sense of humour has always surpassed their dour sensibilities – no one else has ever dared create a cycle of historical familial strife so funny, pungent, bittersweet, and obvious, while employing said family on the cycle itself.
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EMELI SANDE Over Version OfEvents As with any great modern singer, the influences only inspire, and as with any great soul singer, that inspiration is divine. While miniscule British imports abound on the charts and over the airwaves, Sande’s American near-anonymity is a crime.
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FUN. Some Nights A hook-infused smorgasbord of melodious, bombastic choruses, cryptic sweeping verses, self-help placards, and Nate Ruess’ glorious range and tone – the singular male vocalist of the year. An exhilarating exercise in grandiosity.
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PINK The Truth About Love She morphed from the next evolution of teen pop to steadfast hitmaker – and songwriter extraordinaire – four albums ago. What makes The Truth About Love almost perfect is the way it makes us wonder if these 13 tracks are autobiographical or if she’s merely an oracle for today’s women-on-the-verge. Then of course, there’s that voice.
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KENDRICK LAMAR good kid, m.A.A.d city A documentary of potency and importance, the narrative is deep, the stories resonant, and the skill sonorous, this is the ‘concept’ album (or “short film” as he titled it) of the year in a year littered with throwaways and ringtone rap. With his riveting eye and pen, Lamar raises a bar that desperately needed raising.
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IRIS DEMENT Sing The Delta After 15 years – following a great debut with two classics (Infamous Angel, My Life and The Way I Should respectively) and a curious 2004 gospel-tinged covers collection (Lifeline) – DeMent has no grand proclamations to make, rather her still-perfect drawl settles on the simplicity of her own self. More gorgeous, more cerebral, more breathtaking with each listen.
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SPOEK MATHAMBO Father Creeper Epochal collection from talented Johannesburg wordsmith. The amalgamation of hip hop, electronica, rock and rap and dubstep is intentionally dizzying and despaired, brutal and beautiful – like the tales he weaves throughout this exceptional album.
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TODD SNIDER Agnostic Hymns & Stoner Fables A more valid source for political commentary than any legit news source and that’s probably not what Snider wants to hear; he’s first a master storyteller – and a damned-well sardonically brilliant one at that – documenting our humanity, or lack thereof, more precisely, and more hilariously, than none other.
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FRANK OCEAN channel ORANGE After self-releasing his masterpiece nostagiaULTA last year (my favorite album of 2011), channel ORANGE became the cause celebre of 2012 and deserving of all it’s accolades, Ocean has created an intense, formless, brave and archetypal collection – for a modern Soul maestro still sojourning his way to nirvana, it’s visionary.
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SINEAD O’CONNOR How About I Be Me (And You Be You) Sadly mostly a tabloid footnote in the decades since she jettisoned into the public consciousness, this is her most striking, haunting, gorgeous and coherent since then. There’s still that voice, aged but still both ethereal and a mammoth force of nature, and there are the songs themselves, confessionals (of course), private but universal.
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BRUNO MARS Unorthodox Jukebox Circumventing the sophomore slump is a prodigious task when the debut is an indelibleclassic. But Unorthox Jukebox is another slice of musical heaven, a collection of dance-pop masters, Soul tour-de-forces, and a soupcon of disco-infused gems.
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FIONA APPLE The Idler Wheel Is Wiser Than the Driver of the Screw and Whipping Cords Will Serve You More Than Ropes Will Ever Do Were we really ready for a mature, fully realized Fiona Apple release? Sure, the vagaries of her pen often need cryptanalysis, but as it flows and coalesces, it’s epiphanous. And she never panders to anyone, least of all herself – she rarely, if ever, sounded so sure, so potent while singing about uncertainty, jealousy, obsession, solitude or revenge.
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BETTYE LAVETTE Thankful N’ Thoughtful A half-century into this, and almost a decade into her renaissance, LaVette hasn’t dissipated her intensity, her funk or her master interpretations. Her Soul – and soul – aches and thrives.
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Honorable Mentions:
SOLANGE True / AZEALIA BANKS 1991 (tie) It might be cheating summing these up as a tie, but since they’re both EPs (7 and 4 tracks, respectively) I’ll do as I deem worthy. If longevity escapes Banks, it would be a shame – not only does she possess the mightiest skills of any rapper this year, but her dextrous wordplay would give the most seasoned pro pause. Sure, she’s a potty mouth. That’s called love. Solange, dimmed in the spotlight of her megastar sister (that would be Beyonce, to the uninformed) and her long-time collaborator, Dev Hynes, crystallize the past and the future with the present; he supplies the grooves that coalesce, but they wouldn’t be as sumptuous without her perfectly, intentionally restrained vocals. “True” is a precursor to a full-lengther that drops in January. If it’s half as determined and realized, it’ll be worthy come award season. And, also:
ADAM LAMBERT Trespassing, JAPANDROIDS Celebration Rock, PATTI SMITH Banga, BETH HART Bang Bang Boom Boom (import – the domestic release drops in April 2013), BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN Wrecking Ball, MIGUEL Kaleidoscope Dream, MADONNA MDNA, NEIL YOUNG Americana, AMADOU & MARIAM Folia, MACY GRAY Covered, LEONARD COHEN Old Ideas
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Dirty Dozen: The 12 Worst Albums of 2012
CHRIS BROWN Fortune Sometimes you have to separate the ‘art’ from the ‘artist’ and judge the work independently. But when a supercilious shithead (consistently) releases execrable shit, then all bets are off.
CHRISTINA AGUILERALotus A cacophonous, tuneless assortment only her fans could love. (Hey, where are her fans?)
CARRIE UNDERWOODBlown Away Four – count ’em four – duds in a row for this shrill chanteuse, this isn’t her usual apocryphal shit for Country fans – it’s an emboldened (in theory, at least) manufactured pop machination masqueraded as country-politan dreck for the beyond-Idol audience of her dreams. And those arena-rock fantasies have been fulfilled. That’s okay, though. Artistically, she’ll never be Miranda Lambert.
MAROON 5 Overexposed A decade ago, Adam Levine forged his Stevie Wonder delusions, selling blanched white R&B-influenced pop wholesale. Soon thereafter, he laboriously morphed his group into an auto-tuned homologous dance bad, indistinguishable from the consortium of such ilk, with Levine’s ubiquity the key ingredient to their charting mainstay, as this collection of atonal musings solidifies. Consumer fraud alert.
RACHEL MCFARLANDHaley Sings Big brother Seth’s “Music Is Better Than Words” was passionless, (unintentionally) hilarious, and wan. Apparently bequeathed traits. Particularly when sung by a cartoon character.
TRAIN California 37 Tolerable as a singles act (with the eternal “Drops Of Jupiter” their crest), they’ve defined corporate pop-rock for years. But who would’ve thought that a departing guitarist would relegate them to the dustbins? No hook in sight by a California mile.
KREAYSHAWN Something Bout Kreay Subbasement white-girl (c)rap mixed with bargain-basement production, she blessedly managed to diminish a guaranteed 15 Minutes of Fame into about 8, maybe 9. Good riddance.
GEOFF TATE Kings and Thieves At least, back in the day, Tate’s vacuous voice evoked a yearn to escape the lunkhead metal of his sub-genre, he now sounds like complete shit – which would be okay if the material best suited his goal. Self-parody is never sadder when derived from the already parodied world from whence you came. I mean, come on! Wasn’t Queensryche jokey enough?
OWL CITY The Midsummer Station Adam Young’s offensive Ben Gibbard For Morons has long outlasted his (un)welcome; he’d be a full-blown menace to society if anyone cared enough to purchase – or buy into – his shit.
ONE DIRECTION Take Me Home I don’t object Simon Cowell’s crass commercialism – hell, every “boy band” from the Monkees to Backstreet Boys was manufactured for mass appeal. It’s 1Ds passionless readings of even the most banal lyrics that’s most offensive. One-ups their debut in chutzpah, though.
AEROSMITH Music From Another Dimension With the promise to the return of their signature style, I was disappointed with the news – sure, their drug-induced canon created some great American rock n roll in the 70s, but there’s a special place in my heart for their cheesey comeback for the ages that started in the late 80s, which cross-channeled sexy geezer attitude with bubblegum MTV pop to varying degrees of delicious audacity. Then, as their stars faded once again, Tyler found Nigel Lythgoe and after two heinous seasons as the resident perverted sycophant, which included a solo atrocity even Idol wannabes scoffed at, they release what I pray is the final stopgap into the catacombs of history. Whose, title, by the way, is the most misleading in their existence.
WILSON PHILLIPS Dedicated Lifeless necrophilia masqueraded as parental homage.
I’ve been known – much to the chagrin of many of my Little Monster friends – to handily and mercilessly knock Lady Gaga at every whim. Perusing online, I’ve come across countless times my exaggerated disgust for her machinations resulted in comments curious of her longevity. Well, something funny happened during the course of 2010. No, my opinion of her music wasn’t altered much, but my respect for Lady Gaga – as a woman and public figure – took a turn. And, believe it or not, I have Oprah Winfrey to thank for that.
Previously avoiding all print/online/TV things Gaga (I mean, after all, there was nothing this attention whore could possibly invoke that would negate my aversion), I admittedly watched with prejudiced curiosity. What happened was something I didn’t expect. Here was arguably the most popular entertainer on earth – the most talked about, the most controversial, simultaneously the most maligned and worshiped since the heyday of Madonna’s hierarchy, and there didn’t seem to be a haughty bone in her body. Rarely have I witnessed such humility, such earthiness (I know!), such devotion to fans from a pop star of Gaga’s uber-popularity. For all the comparison hubbub, here was the antithesis of Madonna.
It was almost an epiphany. Was I allowing my distaste for her glaring attention-seeking shenanigans (and ersatz first few singles) to miss the abutment of performance art and commerce, from a tough New York cookie with a heart of gold? Sure, such combinations aren’t that new. Madonna – minus the heart of gold, natch – explored the art/commerce agenda brilliantly since her “Like A Virgin” performance at the VMAs over two decades ago (most unsuccessfully – in idea and ideal, anyway – during her EROTICA/SEX/BODY OF EVIDENCE debacle). Purely as an entity, I wanna hang out in the East Village with Gaga, smoke some pot, and throw back a few whiskey sours. And I’ve never smoked pot and loathe whiskey. The Power Of Gaga! (Of course, such brazen tangibility just might be a small ingredient in Gaga’s world domination brew…)
One should always let the music speak for itself, of course, and not be deterred one way or the other from outside sources, so I thought, in light of my ‘a-ha!’ Oprah/Gaga moment, that it was my duty to spelunk her debut with a different, less prejudiced mindset.
Sigh.
THE FAME still felt sonically antiquated, overstuffed; a dance neophyte who had yet to pass the audition. True, THE FAME MONSTER (a sorta addendum to THE FAME, and actually released around the world as a ‘deluxe’ edition) proved an infinitely hookier, more psycho-sexualized transgression. That it includes a song for the ages, “Bad Romance” didn’t hurt. But I just couldn’t get over the feeling that I was being (musically, anyway) conned.
Remember, Miss Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta wasn’t born Lady Gaga. She started her career as another whiny piano-playing singer/songwriter (never had enough of those in the late 90s early aughts, huh?) playing the night club circuit who, when she got nowhere fast because she sounded like every other angsty girl-with-a-piano, decided to write chintzy dance pop songs we’ve heard a thousand times before, only juxtaposing her aesthete was a concoction of cult figures, myriads and icons alike. There was more than a mere dash of Dale Bozzio, more than a smidgen of Grace Jones, more than a measly modicum of Leigh Bowery. All gelled together, with a heaping dose of the Material Girl thrown in, she sought to conquer what she most desired – fame – and became victor.
Yeah, yeah, I know – since time immemorial, Rock ‘N Roll’s been populated with “borrowed” musicality. You can hear the history of Muddy Waters in Led Zeppelin’s whole catalogue; you can feel the ectoplasm of early archetypes like Waters, Bo Diddly, Little Richards, etc. throughout the Rolling Stones’ classic canon. The sounds of gay, urban, black 70s era R&B and disco saturates the bloodline of Madonna’s 20+ year chartulary. There are shades of music history’s past in every present.
But there’s a fine line between “shades of” and “blatant”. “Born This Way” is such an elaborate – maybe intentional? – “Express Yourself” sound-alike that I half expect Gaga to move to England and acquire a phony, uncomfortable English accent! Forget melody (too obvious) – even the chord progression is too close for comfort. And, to my ears, there are more that a few tints of TLCs “Waterfalls” in the verse cadence. When, on release day, I posted on Facebook (and on YouTube) that perhaps it should be renamed “Express Waterfalls”, Gaga’s army went on the attack. That I wasn’t the only one who heard echoes of T-Boz, Chili and Left Eye was little consolation…though I do thank you, YouTube stranger, for this:
Even though he’s using the wrong section of “EY” (it should be the bridge), am I wrong to think Madonna and TLC should reap in royalties?
These accusations aren’t new to Gaga, of course. It was almost a year ago that Gaga faced similar accusations when her controversial video and single for “Alejandro” was released. The song’s/video’s overt similarities (in sound) to Ace of Bace’s “Don’t Turn Around” and (in vision) Madonna (again) were palpable and evident and the blogosphere couldn’t get enough. Every icon has his/her “haters”, true. Gaga’s haters hated, and her minions steadfastly stood by their queen.
One might surmise, not incorrectly, that the “Born This Way” (or “Express Yourself”, for that matter) theme of self-empowerment isn’t exclusive to the LGBT community. Absolutely. But given Gaga’s historical gay alignment, one can’t argue that “gay rights” is at the core – and the genesis – of its central theme (and none of these latest attacks/accusations negates its Hi-NRG exuberance or its surefire gay anthem aesthetics; the clubs will be thud-thud-thudding this along for months to come, straight into and beyond this summer’s gay pride festivities). Its imminent status in the gay rights movement is almost a given.
Sample lyrics:
Don’t be a drag, just be a queen Whether you’re broke or evergreen You’re black, white, beige, chola descent You’re Lebanese, you’re orient Whether life’s disabilities Left you outcast, bullied, or teased Rejoice and love yourself today ‘Cause baby you were born this way
No matter gay, straight, or bi, Lesbian, transgendered life I’m on the right track baby I was born to survive No matter black, white or beige Chola or orient made I’m on the right track baby I was born to be brave
Hey, no one’s ever accused Gaga of a poetic hierarchy, as these lyrics hammer-point home. But, while her choice of vernacular and syntax might be confounding (her use of the word “orient” is causing some minor controversy), rarely – probably never – in the history of pop music has someone of her mega-status been so forthright, so adamant, so positive, so universal in a pro-gay (read: human) rights stance.
I won’t proclaim absolute conversion just yet (and as a 45 year old, it would be – or should be – an embarrassment to call myself a “little monster”), but as homogeneous guilty pleasure, it’s hook-laden and damned catchy. More importantly, though, if “Born This Way” influences one disillusioned youngster – downtrodden by the darkest forces and most vile animosity from so-called humanity, terrified of the world that refuses to accept their innateness – if it breaks free the shackles of suicide as a pain-ending finale – then let it ring from the mountain tops and across the globe.
If ever a musical were created on the concept of Dan Savage’s important and groundbreaking It Gets Better project, “Born This Way” should not only be it’s theme song, but it’s mantra.
My New Boyfriend 