For all the praise that Terius Nash received for penning decade-defining hits like “Umbrella” and “Single Ladies (Put a Ring on It)”, the dirty little secret amongst R&B fans was that Nash’s most adventurous and rewarding songs were on his first solo album, Love/Hate. But with Love vs. Money, Nash—better known as The-Dream— finally got his due both critically and commercially. In tandem with frequent collaborators Tricky Stewart and L.O.S. Da Maestro, he doubled down on his signature formula of classicist R&B song structures and themes fused with production influenced as much by Southern rap as Prince. And with the album’s four-song centerpiece, Nash fleshes out the album’s central conceit (the push/pull between love and money) with a jaw-droppingly operatic suite that blazes a trail from industrial beats to jazz pianos to beatboxing. It’s sandwiched in between sex jams that are both goofy and futuristic, adding up to an album equally suited for the bedroom, the car, and the stage.
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The Very Best could have been just another dance-pop collaboration, springing off the back of the recent uptick in Google alerts for “African traditional music”. With a Fader cover and that pat back-story about the Frenchmen buying a bicycle from the Malawian store owner, things seemed perfectly set up for a familiar internet hype/quick disappointment cycle. But The Very Best Mixtape, an astounding collection of exuberance and, yes, warm heart, bested even M.I.A. at her own game. Remarkably, the group returned with even stronger material on the group’s proper debut. From its opening fanfare, the spreading cymbals and toms herald bright sunshine, which doesn’t let up for almost an hour. Singing in a mixture of Chichewa and English, Mwamwaya’s smooth, gospel inflections and Radioclit’s treble-heavy synths buoy up songs that seem to pull melody after addictive melody out of the air. It’s some heady electro dream, but a dream in which only good things happen, all the time.
The sophomore record from Germany’s Kilimanjaro Darkjazz Ensemble did not receive much press stateside on its release, but its ominously toned, slow-burning post-jazz indelibly burrowed itself into the psyche of the few brave North Americans willing to venture its uncertain shores. The title of Here Be Dragons literally means dangerous or unexplored territories, in reference to the placing of mythological creatures in blank areas of medieval maps. Certainly, the record captures that sense of taking bold chances in the name of progress and discovery, albeit in the realm of music. From its roots as the duo of electronic manipulator Jason “Bong-Ra” Köhnen and drummer Gideon Kiers, TKDE has since expanded to a seven-piece collective. Naturally, their recordings have come to reflect this, as the comparatively obvious sound of their 2005 debut has developed into a supremely textured, vividly cinematic tour de force. Here Be Dragons is an intelligent and nuanced record, full of swells and sighs, utterly epic yet incalculably subtle, existing somewhere between keen, intuitive live improvisation and the best-laid plans of mad scientists. Experimental music is rarely this consistently captivating.
About three seconds into Monoliths and Dimensions you know exactly what you’re getting into. Well, maybe not exactly, but I would guess most listeners have decided within a minute if this album is for them. The opening “riff”—a bass note so low and with so much feedback it’s origin could be Cthulu itself—drones on for longer than most pop songs. The vocals (however sparse) are from a man possessed, guttural and foreign and terrifying. Even seemingly innocent instruments like the trombone are warped and twisted into a nightmarish audio assault. But unlike most metal, this album’s slow burn—no more than a candle flickering on a dark horizon—will drown you under it’s weight. Four songs. 53 minutes. Only one track (just barely) under the 10-minute mark. This is an album that locks you up and throws away the key.
Townes is arguably the quintessential Americana album. Townes Van Zandt is Americana—not the culture industry’s Statuettes of Liberty and Fourth of July parades, but its people, especially its millions of restless outcasts. His songs conjure a culture’s icons: forlorn Edward Hopper loners, restless Melvillean vagabonds, and downcast Bukowskian couples. They often cite the geography to which they belong and are fleeing, from Texas and New Mexico to Cleveland and Greensboro. Their melodies and rhythms are as plucky as they are distraught. Americana is Steve Earle, too: an ex-con and an ex-junkie; an anti-death penalty, anti-landmine, and anti-war activist; an actor, writer, and singer. And Townes Van Zandt, dead in 1997, was Earle’s close friend. This album is a musical eulogy from one great U.S. singer-songwriter to another. It’s partly Van Zandt in his own words—his recurrent bewilderment with the universe and his small but surprisingly sustainable consolations in highways, smiles, wine, and one-night-stands. Yet it subtly interprets, expands, and salutes its subject through Earle’s signature scruff vocals, familiar repertoire of arrangements, and excellent vocal contributions from Justin Townes Earle, Tom Morello, and Allison Moorer.