What's a Listening Log? Well, the idea is quite simple. It's a weekly segment that consolidates all the mini-reviews Dozens Of Donuts has given on RateYourMusic over the past week, split between the Past and Present. A straightforward grading scale has been put in place, ranging from A+ to F-, with C acting as the baseline average. There is no set amount of reviews per week, just however many I get around to reviewing. And don't expect week-of reviews. I wait one month - with at least three listens under my belt - before I rate and review an album. Enjoy!
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2019 | Conscious Hip-Hop | Listen
REVISITING THE STOOP, REFLECTING ON SMOKE SESHES
After years of eviscerating featured guest spots - like the underground Kendrick Lamar - Hemlock Ernst (known to most as Sam Herring of Future Islands fame) has finally dropped his debut project; Back At The House. A test of fortitude, might, and demand, Back At The House pairs Ernst with his established beat connoisseur Kenny Segal whose already proven his worth this year with Hiding Places, his excellent collaboration with Billy Woods. Unfortunately, the result here is not as fruitful despite Ernst's somber, seasoned aesthetic ripening itself quite profoundly. This is arguably the greatest weakness of Back At The House; It reeks of early 2000's underground Hip-Hop soothsayers, complete with plebeian flows and lethargic production. It's a passion project, but one that's not particularly evocative or memorable to listen to.
Influence comes from the Hip-Hop sect built in the rugged north, like Atmosphere, P.O.S., Brother Ali, and more. Typically these represent Back At The House's most tedious affairs, like 'Messy,' 'Slabs Of The Sunburnt West,' and 'Back At The House.' Their insistence on tradition is circular and therefore drags behind in terms of outward creativity, of which there is little to offer. A shame considering Ernst's feature spots - be it with Milo, Busdriver, or Open Mike Eagle - exuded energy and panache. Back At The House is truly a symptomatic slog of Hip-Hop's businesslike underground. It's best moments, like 'North To South' and 'Down,' find both Ernst and Segal tugging on the rigid strings to offer some slack and levity. They're fun, whilst still adhering to the contemplative visages Ernst boasts about his comeuppance. Otherwise an unremarkable LP that was desperately in need of features of its own.
C-
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2019 | Abstract Hip-Hop | Listen
COPING WITH ANXIETY THROUGH LEXICAL SELF-ACCEPTANCE
It's been said before but bears repeating: There isn't anything original about MAVI's debut Let The Sun Talk. Comparisons to Earl Sweatshirt and MIKE are rampant, and for good reason as the 19-year-old upstart's drowsy lexicon, coarse life lessons, and slack-jaw discharge all imitate the latest movement to repair and repackage Mumble Rap for a young, Conscious Hip-Hop audience. A new sub-genre is in the works here, the name just hasn't solidified yet.
As with any piece of artwork, talent can only take you so far. MAVI has that in spades, or at least the potential to flourish given concise concepts and surly production. Problem being, creativity is minimal and idiosyncrasy nonexistent. Similarities in this regard come to YBN Cordae's debut The Lost Boy, wherein an identity to distinguish was lost despite the quality displayed musically. Trend-hopping some would call it, though that's a tad harsh as MAVI clearly has an interest in catechizing this style. Let The Sun Talk seems more like an exploration into what it is, rather than what it could be.
There's one excellent track to celebrate and that's 'Self Love,' with its gorgeous Soul loop and affectionate poetry. It reminds me of the unfathomably good Standing On The Corner cut 'MIKE Sees The Storm.' That's where MAVI's chance for notoriety lies, in elucidating positivity from the otherwise mucky confines MIKE and Earl find themselves in. The desolate scrum is what defines Let The Sun Talk's second half, as a slew of somnolent filler ('Chiasma,' 'Guernica,' and 'Omavi') inundate whatever aspiration MAVI had with reductive mimicry. 'Daylight Savings' and 'Sense,' on the other hand, enliven the grim procession with vivacity and complexity, all while maintaining that authenticity and veracity crucial to this style of Hip-Hop.
C-
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2019 | MPB | Listen
A FESTIVAL OF PEACE TAKEN ACROSS THE WORLD
Bravo, Ana Frango Elétrico. Bravo. Joy knows no borders, be it from one's culture, class, or language. The beauty of Little Electric Chicken Heart arises in this all-prevailing notion that harmony is boundless and jubilation is universal. There isn't a moment to be spent on Elétrico's sophomore LP - apart from the one-minute moment of respite 'Vinheta' - where one isn't grinning from cheek to cheek. Take the vibrant MPB of Gal Costa, the foreign grandeur of Bruno Pernadas, and the kitschy playfulness of Stereolab and you have Little Electric Chicken Heart and its near-flawless 30 minutes.
An endorphin rush for the ears, the three-track run that brings out the heavy-hitters of 'Promessas e Previsões,' 'Se no Cinema,' and 'Tem Certeza?' is likely the happiness 10 minutes of music I've experienced. In my entire life. On the former, Elétrico takes on the role of Portuguese Julia Holter, mixing quaint Chamber Pop with roaring Jazz outbreaks akin to Aviary's most freakish moments like 'Les Jeux To You.' On the middle 'Se no Cinema,' Elétrico teases with Lounge and Space Age Pop before seamlessly bridging the gap to an uptempo romp rife with background vocals and chronic chants that are enchanting to anyone who fells victim to the reverie. Lastly, 'Tem Certeza?' deserves applause for its copacetic use of Ska only, the last bastion of 90's carefree idealism. It's fantastic and, thanks to its assimilation with Samba and Pop, isn't kitschy or graceless in the slightest.
While Little Electric Chicken Heart's first half stands in superiority to the back half, latter cuts like 'Devia Ter Ficado Menos' and its unpredictably-manic chorus or 'Caspa' and its curvaceous Tropicália are perfectly fine closing measures that would be standouts elsewhere. For those English readers who tread lightly with music from other languages, fret not: If there's one foreign album I could recommend to English-speaking music-lovers, it would be Little Electric Chicken Heart. As mentioned before, the album's greatness lies in its irresistibility that can be understood by any human with the slightest sense of gaiety. When I hear Elétrico frolic freely about these songs, misinterpreting her lyrics are the last thing on my mind because her charisma - and the production that fuses with her - is so strong that understanding her motives, messages, and candor becomes second nature. Her presence is intoxicating, and so is Little Electric Chicken Heart, one of 2019's best works of art.
A-
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2019 | Dark Ambient | Listen
NUCLEAR FALLOUT DEVOID OF POMP & CIRCUMSTANCE
I was hoping I could enjoy Hildur Guðnadóttir's Chernobyl soundtrack removed from the context of the show, but unfortunately that hasn't turned out to be the case. To me, music meant to assist and sustain another medium (mostly visual) rarely leaves a meaningful impact when set adrift by its lonesome. While watching HBO's Chernobyl series - a must, but that goes without saying - Guðnadóttir's work felt indelible, yet destructive, authoritarian yet vulnerable, cataclysmic yet convalescent. Here, it just feels empty and insignificant. Which again, is meant to be the point given its need for visual aid and plot predicaments to cue effect and consequence.
Similarities can be heard to other Dark Ambient artists like Ben Frost, Demdike Stare, or Tim Hecker. Minimal movement, an overwhelming sense of weight, with occasional outbursts of steam and friction ('The Door,' 'Gallery,' 'Corridors'). But largely lacking in accessibility, variety, and originality. When Ambient reduces itself to achieve a niche aesthetic, limitations in what can be achieved grow, thus causing almost every project under that sub-genre to lack a discernible identity. Chernobyl at least comes equip with 'Vichnaya Pamyat' and 'Líður,' two choir-led performances that help to separate and discern. As for best track, that has to go to '12 Hours Before' with its gorgeous string arrangement that wouldn't be out of place on a William Basinski record set to the tune of idyllic hopelessness.
C-
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Yet another Battles album that comes up short, for the basic fundamentals of the group (now just a duo of John Stanier and Ian Williams) are flawed, disjointed, and unsightly. No matter how talented, raw, or energetic, nothing can override the inherent stridence of Battles' brand of Math Rock. I called 2015's La Di Da Di a kitchen sink album, and without knowing that Juice B Crypts would be even more extreme in this regard. This, due to the unusual and disorganized featured spots. None of them - be it Xenia Rubinos on 'They Played It Twice,' Sal Principato on 'Titanium 2 Step,' or Shabazz Palaces on 'Izm,' - fit the mold and aesthetic of Battles' hyperactive cornucopia of sound and distortion. Only Tune-Yards' helter-skelter brand of Art Pop fits, causing 'Last Supper On Shasta' to be Juice B Crypts' only vocal success.
Battles do fair better when left to their own devices, but there's no overcoming the jagged corners, screeching electronics, or general bombast that hits you from all angles. Only 'Fort Greene Park' passes with flying colors, as restraint takes shape allowing melody and usable patterns to emerge. It borders on Post-Rock in that regard, though certainly not atmospherically. Opener 'Ambulance' is also decent in terms of applying Battles' slathered style, being the most reminiscent of Mirrored, but nothing, I feel, will hold much substance for the long-term. Juice B Crypts is a weird album of panic-induced Neo-Psychedelia for an LSD trip gone wrong. Not really a pleasurable listening experience, though it clearly intends to be.
D+
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2019 | Abstract Hip-Hop | Listen
TRANQUILIZED IN THE BASEMENT, SKUNK-SCENTED AROMA
Essentially a collection of outtakes from Some Rap Songs, and if it's not Earl Sweatshirt needs to worry about lack of evolution and resting on his laurels. By and large, Feet Of Clay will satisfy fans of Sweatshirt's idiosyncratic direction, a style whose merits I'm still debating feverishly a year onwards. Weighted production glued to the floor, choppy loops that heighten the sense of disarray, and the ever monotone and stalwart Sweatshirt reciting paranoia-laced doctrines. With MIKE and Standing On The Corner acting as purveyors, Sweatshirt the torchbearer for wider audiences, and MAVI - who appears here on highlight 'EL TORO COMBO MEAL' - the prodigy with loads of potential, it's only a matter of time before this peculiar blend of Abstract Hip-Hop and Cloud Rap dons a new moniker of its own. The style is rich, textured, and easily defined.
Brevity has been associated with Sweatshirt's projects since the immaculate 'Solace,' and that maintains form on Feet Of Clay as the seven-track, 15-minute duration would've been curtailed even further if not for the five-minute, mostly instrumental closer '4N.' It's difficult to ascertain quality when pieces come and go at such a brisk pace, sometimes, like on 'MTOMB' and 'OD,' merely lasting for the duration of a verse. Sweatshirt's resistance towards elaboration is frustrating, especially when promise is revealed. 'TISK TISK / COOKIES' is a great example, as the first half of the track last a mere 30 seconds despite holding an aurally-arousing Sound Collage that could've extended further. Feet Of Clay won't wow, but it's narcotic tones and languished panoply will associate itself with a niche aesthetic (namely, a smoked-out den) quite veraciously. I do expect more from Sweatshirt's next project though.
C
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