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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It's a shame to say, but there's nothing on Shrines better than the album's cover. Not only does it encapsulate Armand Hammer's sound, not only does it make an apt commentary on racial and class divide, not only does it provoke investigation for those unaware of the Tiger in Harlem, it manages to portray 2020 and its clear, cruel barbarity. Just a phenomenally-used photograph, one that manages to visualize Billy Woods and Elucid's conscious depravity and inner-city friction with brusque incursion.
As for the music, Shrines' distinction from Armand Hammer's past affairs lie in the production's perverted boldness. Typically run-of-the-mill Abstract Hip-Hop infused to murky, bleak East Coast construction, on Shrines' best efforts expectation is unfurled and splintered. Take 'Leopards' or 'Slew Foot,' both entrenched in the mire of clangorous sewers, with crude drums acting as pipe bursts or drainage overflow and distant groans imitating the lost voices descending into the steam. The sample intrusion on both, and plenty elsewhere, is not only refreshing considering Armand Hammer's sometimes stale production, but constantly keeps you on the edge of your seat. It isn't clipping. level Horrorcore as we saw on There Existed An Addiction To Blood, as certain tracks like 'Solarium' and 'Charms' stray from thorny distress with colorful Jazz Rap and nostalgic whimsy, but the job is handled effectively enough.
As with Paraffin and Rome which came before, the overused patterns from Elucid and Billy Woods hampers creativity from branching out. Their lyrics, as always, delve into intimate concepts of the self and visual depictions surrounding them. The flows are tame and rarely deviate from preconceived shapes, form-fitting, like a glove, to their sunken aesthetic. In other words, their presence hardly manages to standout as their pursuit for development sits idly at a stalemate. Verses can be interchanged on the same song, on others, or hell, on Paraffin two years prior. There's a distinct lack of rhyme or reason, as confronting ubiquity seems to be Armand Hammer's main goal. To be there, to exist in the moment, to revel - or anguish - in their environs. Not to divulge artistry upon that dyspepsia exterior.
C+
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Forgive me Sault, for I have sinned. How lousy of a fan does one have to be to praise a debut, skip the sequel, ignore a rebirth, and return only for the ceremonious coda? 5 roared with impassioned cries from society's unsung heroes, driving messages of equality and change over empowered Neo-Soul that felt as human as it comes. I can only imagine 7 and Black Is achieved the same feat, but alas, here I am a half-hearted endorser. As with many who unload vast amounts of art unto the world, consumption comes at the cost of gluttony, and the mere thought of Sault's staggering insistence became tiresome to a mind well-nurtured. However, curiosity can often overcome that, which is why we find ourselves here. Sault doesn't evolve so much as refine on Rise, an album all about conquering oppression by taking the high road. A mix of pleading political messages and jovial, dance-first Afrobeat certifies another near-triumph.
Rise begins with Sault's most ambitious effort to date, the six-minute 'Strong;' a multi-dimensional, structurally-fluid composition that puts almost anything in the genre of Neo-Soul to shame. Over glistening strings and frisky tribal drums, Sault weaves a narrative of determination and intrepidity. It defines the rest of Rise, setting the stage for political Dance music that's both accessible and informative. Think somewhere in the large median between M.I.A. and Janelle Monáe. 'Fearless' and 'Street Fighter' come to mind while defining this notion, while others like 'Son Shine' and 'Uncomfortable' ride atop low tempo, doleful production reminiscent of Erykah Badu. The latter efforts, doubled-down on unnecessary deep cuts 'Scary Times' and 'The Black & Gold,' reduce Rise to an antithesis of its overarching message. While enforced to entertain coherent pacing, these lethargic affairs quiver under the weight of Sault's spirit and spunk elsewhere. That is, excluding Rise's phenomenal closer 'Little Boy.' Here, the group bare their souls with a tearful lullaby on police brutality, achieving resonance via duplicitous means. The infertile production, matched with the grim content, reminds me of Noname's 'Casket Pretty.' Deceptively simple, endlessly effective.
Though there's definite filler on Rise, it's not so concentrated. The songs that lack sonic substance tend to favor lyrical importance, while the latter holds true on other vicarious standouts 'I Just Want To Dance' and 'Free.' I await the moment Sault's able to fuse accessible with enlightened, as they accomplished splendidly on 'Strong.' The pieces are there, the talent, inspiration, and intelligence is too. Few pieces of art are able to provoke more than those whose expectations are upturned. Comfortable Neo-Soul with a dance-floor bend is the perfect place to throw people off their axis.
B
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After years of hearing secondhand about a transformative artist, in a genre you're fascinated by, do you press play on the brief, systematically-composed LP or the schizophrenic, seven-disc, 49-track, two hour and 40-minute composition of ideas? Any sane connoisseur would digest the former. In A.G. Cook's case, that would be a woeful mistake. How Cook plunged this far, I can not tell. It's as if Apple took the worst of 7G and ran so far into the future that the blinding speed of light caused one to lose all their senses. It lacks agency, purpose, and intrigue; three necessary factors for any Electropop project positioning itself for prospective consumption. Ignoring the balderdash of Noise and whiny vocals - facets one comes to expect from Bubblegum Bass - Apple's tempered placidity and stifled inertia quiver under the weight of progress. This is no Oil Of Every Pearl's Un-Insides. This is no vision into the future.
It's also no how i'm feeling now, though the comparison between Apple and Charli XCX's latest triumph starts and ends with Cook as executive producer. A baffling statement given the palpable gap of sonic fidelity, as tracks like 'pink diamond' and 'detonate' scoff with flair and panache when looking down at sorry endeavors like 'Oh Yeah' and 'Jumper.' Not even the worst Apple has to offer mind you, as 'Xxoplex,' 'Animals,' and 'Haunted' all compete for various reasons, whether it's the brute force of the former, anchored putter of 'Animals,' or shriveled soul-baring of the latter. There's really only one successful piece here, and even that would hardly scratch the top ten on 7G. That is, of course, 'Airhead,' which bounces with fairy fanfare before developing in cascading waterfalls of synthesizers. It's the only thing that bears momentum on Apple, as even 'Stargon' which promises the same locomotion never crests into a divine payoff.
To arrive here after 7G is nothing short of a disappointment. I barely mentioned the grating vocals, and never once spoke on behalf of the piss-poor lyrics that would rest more comfortably on the tear-soaked pages of a teenager schoolgirl's diary. This is no exaggeration: Three, separate, full-length albums could've been composed from the scrapes of 7G's throwaways, resulting in works better than Apple. Curious connoisseurs like myself, invest in the former and avoid the latter as if it never existed..
F+
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