By BRUCE DENNILL
Nobigdyl – Solar
Laurinda Hofmeyr – Afrique Mon Desir
Various Artists: Fast & Furious 8 – The Album
Gregorian: Masters Of Chant – The Final Chapter
Macy Gray – Ruby
Rudimental – Toast To Our Differences
American hip hop artist Dylan Phillips, aka nobigdyl, is a talented rapper, singer and writer. His lyrics here confirm an ability to verbalise complex themes while also including clever phrasing that makes the words’ expression more powerful when he performs each song. The production on each track is also good, with satisfyingly heavy bass anchoring crisp beats positioned to avoid obscuring Phillips’ voice. On a first listen, everything is good. Going forward from there, though, Solar struggles with the same issues faced by collections in any genre where lyrical storytelling is the primary focus, to the relative exclusion of hooks and melodies (as hip hop often is). Strong as Phillips’ writing is, there will be only so many times that you can marvel at his insight and facility with words without catchiness that will help you remember the songs as individual, standalone compositions. Psycho Heart! fares best in this area – smart, impressively produced and with a chorus that brings in pop accessibility. Generally, then, an excellent album for hip hop afficionados and a offering of mixed appeal for music fans with less niche interests.
A concept album built around African poetry with a specific theme – longing for Africa – and sung in three languages (English, Afrikaans and French), this is a collection with an unavoidably niche appeal. For all that, though, it is beautifully made, with the languages listeners are least familiar with having poetry of their own in their inflections and the rise and fall of the delivery by Laurinda Hofmeyr (gentle, lilting, sensitive) and the often more strident but no less sensitive stylings of collaborators Malako Wekuna Soba, Yamamoto Bonkuto Loyeke and Deodata Kinzunga-Walo. The music of Madagascar is a major influence on the compositions here, with the accordion playing of the late Regis Gizavo adding colour, energy and style wherever he is included. Some of the songs are linked by spoken-word recitations of poetry, with translations opening up the work of poets likely unknown to Hofmeyr’s listeners (including Cameroon’s Patrice Nganang, whose Gens Du Silence is read in Afrikaans, included in the sleeve notes in English and interpreted musically with French lyrics). Reflux De La Lumiere Oceane (words my Malagasy poet Jean-Joseph Rabearivelo) and 26 November 1975 (based on a poem by South Africa’s Breyten Breytenbach) are two of the standout songs on this ambitious project, which rewards investment in its complexities.
A film as brash and over the top as Fast & Furious 8 (submarines crashing through the Arctic ice on which pumped-up muscle cars are racing, anyone?) is never going to bother aiming for subtlety, and the braggadocio of rap and hip hop are a sensible fit with the on-screen action. That said, though, much of the material here is – relative to what is available in those genres – pretty low-key; background music more than a mood enhancer for a scenario where engines are revving and tattooed biceps are flexing. Horses by PNB Rock, Kodack Black and A Boogie Wit Da Hoodie directly addresses the film series’ enduring themes – fast cars and a lifestyle to match, and Post Malone’s Candy Paint adds some imagination in terms of arrangements, without losing any swagger. Don’t Get Much Better by Jeremih, Tyla Dolla Sign and Sage The Gemini is a rare poppy moment, but for the most part, this collection feels like a collection of beats with an occasional overlap in lyrical theme rather than an album that either calls the film strongly to mind or has any real identity in its own right.
To many, it will seem unlikely that “the final chapter” of an act that seemingly relied so heavily on novelty value took nearly 20 years to materialise. The German band Gregorian: Masters Of Chant, mostly known for their cover versions performed in the choral chanting style of Gregorian monks, have released over 20 albums, giving the lie to cynical proclamations about how such material has no staying power. It’s true that there is little of great sophistication here – the title track, an original, begins with the lyrics, “We are masters of chant, we are brothers in arms, for we don’t give up till time has come,” – but the truth remains that if the style appeals to a listener. Strong songs will almost always emerge from beneath whatever arrangement they are filtered through, and the Beatles’ In My Life, Mike and the Mechanics’ Living Years, Bob Dylan’s I Shall Be Released and Tracy Chapman’s Baby Can I Hold You, generally slowed down and with the vocal delivery more staid and less nuanced all survive intact, adding something different to the appreciation of the writing. Not flashy, and necessarily samey in terms of instrumentation, this is still an album worth a listen for genre fans.
If this collection’s overarching mood suggests a shimmering, tasselled Twenties flapper dress, it should be noted that Macy Gray is the owner of the club in which it is worn. Gray’s distinctive voice is given a number of differently styled foundations into which to settle. The best moments are when those arrangements suggest a high-end jazz club, with an in-house horn section and backing singers and plush velvet everything, with Gray’s voice sounding like a smile regardless of the lyrical subject matter, which is as often confrontational as it is cheerful. Opener Buddha (featuring some fantastic guitar work from Gary Clark Jr) is brilliant and audacious, while Over You is finger-snapping satisfaction. White Man, with its quick-stepping bassline, is a no-nonsense challenge to prejudice with a melody and mood to fit a southern gospel choir, while Tell Me is the sort of performance that Mafia dons hire out entire clubs for in old movies. There’s a mid-album stall in the poppy Sugar Daddy, which removes much of Gray’s forceful personality to negative effect, and the electronica of When It Ends. Just Like Jenny brings everything smartly back on line, though, and the cheeky raised-eyebrow arrangement of Jealousy will make listeners happier than the emotion itself. But He Loves Me offers bleak honesty about a troubled relationship and why leaving is not the simple solution over an elegant, string-drenched arrangement. A strong offering.
In the age of #BlackLivesMatter and half a dozen other campaigns highlighting and seeking to heal our divisions, a record that in its title and its construction aims to celebrate community and strength together is certainly welcome. But Rudimental‘s Toast To Our Differences feels more like a file in which a sheaf of disparate documents have been collected rather than a focused statement of intent. Every track on the album has at least one featured artist, many of these guests high-profile performers (Macklemore on These Days, which has the sound of an earnest charity single; Rita Ora on Summer Love and Ladysmith Black Mambazo on the too-brief Thula Ungakhlai, which ends as it begins to get affecting). This is no doubt a boon in terms of adding keywords and genre fits on streaming services, but in album form it is a mixed blessing, adding snatches of appeal to a wider audience but rather diluting the offering for listeners wanting to hear where Rudimental themselves are at in terms of headspace and creativity. There’s plenty of energy and cheerfulness here, and Let Me Live and Walk Alone are a couple of the more memorable options.