A Late Renaissance for This Veteran Poet

Gil Scott-Heron sounds older than 60. Years of cigarettes, cocaine and prison time have weathered his voice, scrubbed it with sandpaper. What remains is thick and careful and potent, like some forgotten whiskey. His voice is timeless.

Especially on I’m New Here, the poet’s first proper record in 16 years, which sounds like the Tibetan Book of the Dead as interpreted by William Faulkner as produced by Portishead. Still, that description underestimates the record’s touchstones, made by decades of artists that Scott-Heron himself influenced.

In fact, nearly a third of I’m New Here is cover songs (bold, considering the record doesn’t even spin for half an hour), but as blues standards, they’re the perfect canvas for Scott-Heron. All is cyclical with this raspy poet.

This is most obvious in the two parts of “On Coming from a Broken Home” that bookend the record. Lyrically, Scott-Heron sees just and vicious circles of morality: “If you’ve got to pay for things you’ve done wrong, uh, I’ve got a big bill coming,” he follows with a laugh on “Being Blessed (Interlude).”

That sort of casual introspection typifies I’m Not Here. It shows the poet also feels older than 60 – death looms ahead like a tall, scruffy pine and casts a shadow over all these song-poems.

Scott-Heron even anticipates his eulogy and mocks it in advance: “As every -ologist would certainly note, I had no strong male figure, right?” he says in the first song.

With much help from producer Richard Russell, I’m New Here is blues for the future. There are nods to folk, R&B, and hip-hop and some songs even recall dubstep, the most successful electronic movement of the past few years. But somehow all of it together makes for a lonely listen.

The best example is “New York Is Killing Me,” which is a classic blues tune recast in harsh streetlight. Russell uses cymbals, warped handclaps and a gospel choir to assemble I’m New Here’s darkest and best song.

If the record has a theme, it is uncertainty: in God (“if there is one,” he sneers, only to beg for His mercy a few songs later), in time (“Where Did the Night Go”) and in safety of any kind (“Running”).

But in his age, the poet is always certain of himself. “I was guided to get here,” he states, saying elsewhere, “I did not become someone different that I did not want to be.”

So while Gil Scott-Heron remains sure that his life was exactly what it was supposed to be, we remain sure of his genius. I’m New Here is an old-time record completely devoid of clichés, and one of the best records of this young year.

Gorillaz’ “Plastic Beach,” a Great Beached Whale

Gorillaz have been one of pop’s wackiest successes since “Clint Eastwood” invaded airwaves nearly a decade ago. It’s hard to believe a cartoon band lasted this long, even harder considering the group releases new music about once every five years.

Of course, it’s all the brainchild of former Blur front man Damon Albarn, a challenging and prolific songwriter, and illustrator Jamie Hewlett. The duo stays busy with an endless roll of side projects, thus Plastic Beach, the group’s newest album, comes a full half-decade after the fluke commercial success of Demon Days.

Plastic Beach is a braver record in every way, especially in its bevy of guest spots. Albarn wipes Snoop Dogg of grit and leaves him alone in a sterile soundscape. He employs the influential mutter of former Velvet Underground singer Lou Reed in a barroom piano jam. Veteran rap troupe De La Soul makes “Superfast Jellyfish” the jam of the spring.

It’s worth noting that many of Albarn’s collaborators are washed up music legends. The word here is “rebirth.” He treats these musicians as actors in his giant production, and Plastic Beach proves him a brilliant director – he rouses unexpectedly great performances from almost all of them.

The secret to Gorillaz lies in this pluralistic approach, and Plastic Beach is its realization. It’s as if the shattered pieces of world culture washed up on a beach, and Albarn, with the help of some friends, was there to reassemble them in his own demented way.

Speaking of pollution, the muse is an imagined island, composed of all the ocean’s floating trash. Plastic Beach is as a concept album should be: strange and messy and full of wit. Hewlett’s stylized version of the future is impossible and idyllic. The main characters aren’t cartoon characters anymore – they’re environments.

The result is a great beached whale of an album, one that was really written for sunshine. Albarn has a knack for breezy, winding melodies, as heard in the title track and “Broken,” the record’s best song. Elsewhere, the charming, carbonated sound of the band’s 2001 debut bubbles to the surface. (“Superfast Jellyfish,” “On Melancholy Hill”)

Still, Albarn wrote more than 70 songs for this record, and some of that blubber remains, sandwiched between distinct pop gems. Mos Def’s contributions to “Stylo” and “Sweepstakes” are especially disappointing – the latter sounds like M.I.A. with the cream filling sucked out. Two other songs relegate the funk-cacophony of Hypnotic Brass Ensemble to musical wallpaper.

Regardless, it’s a thrill to hear Albarn evolve from rock star to curator. He’s become a socially conscious prophet and vital pop musician. Plastic Beach is an undeniable success, especially in timing – I can’t think of a better soundtrack for spring break.

Eluvium’s “Similes,” A Restful Void

My first listen of Eluvium’s new record was interrupted barely five minutes in, when I fell asleep.

To my credit, Similes is an impenetrable, arrhythmic fog. Matthew Cooper, the man behind the moniker, has a track record of ambient releases, a genre born in the space between transcendent and tedious.

Brian Eno, the musician widely credited for the creation of ambient, once wrote that the music “is intended to induce calm and a space to think.” In this context, Similes rushes to buy wallpaper and curtains before building a doorframe. Cooper, an obvious member of the Pro Tools generation, squanders fine-tuned production on half-hearted song fragments.

Still, Cooper knows the trappings of ambient music: soft tones, innocuous chords, slow tempos and no singing. He violates that last rule for the first time on Similes, but does so timidly by burying his tuneless mutter low in the mix. He should have known better.

He also should have known that chaining Similes to a single mood would trap the record inside its own murky aesthetic. These are drones, not songs. Repeating the same progression for 11 minutes (“Cease to Know”) is no longer experimental – it’s lazy and it leaves little room for evolution or enjoyment.

Even more constrictive is Cooper’s reliance on piano and back-masked guitar, which lays a soggy foundation for every song on Similes. “If the colors and the shapes were clearly more defined,” he sings in the finale, a condition he would do well to indulge.

Sadly, of all the emotions the record strains to evoke, the only apparent one is disappointment. Deep yearning should lead to action, and this is Cooper’s problem: his voice is all welled tears and no balled fists. Only a child could enjoy this sort of sad indulgence.

The result is a piece of music unsuitable for active listening. Ironically, Similes is a soundtrack to its own failure.

Cold War Kids – Behave Yourself

A couple of weeks ago, Cold War Kids released their follow up to their sophomore slump, Loyalty to Loyalty, with the stellar Behave Yourself EP.  Despite being only 14 minutes long, this record is as big of a step in the right direction as Loyalty was a step in the wrong direction.  After the release of the Loyalty in late 2008, followed by several poor reviews of their live shows, I had all but written them off when I heard Behave.  After grooving to, being swooned by and then being inspired by Behave Yourself, once again I find myself eagerly awaiting the next project from Cold War Kids.  Especially since I just recently heard that on their next record they are going to be working with producer Jacquire King, whose most recent credits include the new Norah Jones record, which we loved, and one of the best rock records of 2008, Kings of Leon’s Only By the Night.