Lambchop, Damaged, Merge Records
Kurt Wagner and the ever-fluctuating cast of characters who make up Lambchop have been many things over the course of the last 13 years: country-rockers on 1996’s How I Quit Smoking, a full-on soul band for 1998’s What Another Man Spills, and even a ‘60s crooner group for 2000’s Nixon. Never, though, have they been as quiet as on Damaged, Lambchop’s ninth album. They’ve also never been as focused and uniformly excellent. Stylistically, it’s a return to the soul music of the band’s late-’90s work, but this is a calm, muted soul music: Curtis Mayfield for the old and chronically depressed. Even with 15 or more musicians the songs barely seem to exceed a whisper.
This restraint can lead to a certain degree of monotony, especially in the latter half of the album, but it nonetheless serves as the ideal backdrop for Wagner’s somber baritone rumblings. The band’s last outing was in 2004, with the simultaneously released Aw C’mon and No, You C’mon. The format stretched Wagner thin as a songwriter, resulting in a few duds. He’s refocused here, reflecting on aging, mortality (the album’s title refers at least partially to a cyst that destroyed half his jaw and an ongoing fight with cancer), and marriage. These reflections showcase Wagner’s unparalleled skill at capturing the nuanced details hidden within the mundane. Both “Prepared” and “A Day Without Glasses” study relationships, looking at the quiet tensions and subdued desires of marriage. “Paperback Bible” finds meaning in the discarded remnants of the average life; “Beers Before the Barbican” deals with the awkwardness of seeing old friends. It’s never humorless, but Wagner is certainly more serious than we’ve heard him before.
Interestingly, the final track, by far the most bombastic piece on the album, seems almost a repudiation of what has come before. Wagner shakes off his resignation and insecurity; he attacks the symbols of the life around him, stakes his ground, and even jokes a bit. Still, his voice cracks slightly as he closes out the track with a declaration of love. It took him awhile, but Wagner has finally managed his masterpiece; one can’t help but wonder where he takes Lambchop next.
—P.S. Hepburn
The Roots, Game Theory, Def Jam Records
The Roots’ decision to sign with Def Jam records had their fans extremely worried. The label’s now run by Jay-Z, the same MC who once lamented, “you gotta believe I think like an artist/but my bills through the roof/can’t do numbers like The Roots.” It seems like President (Sean) Carter is trying to flip that sentiment: letting The Roots do what they do best on their Def Jam debut Game Theory, then market them into numbers in the black for Jigga.
Starting off with “Dillastic Vol. Won(derful)” and ending with “Can’t Stop This,” Game Theory is bookended by two tributes to the late J Dilla, the legendary underground hip-hop producer who influenced some of the hottest rappers in the game. In between, the album is busting with masterful wordplay, social commentary and Philly pride. ?uestlove and the band lay down their tradmark jazzy, syncopated funk beats for Black Thought to rip apart with his agressive spitting.
The album really kicks into gear with “False Media,” a refusal to feed into a Ritalin-ridden culture. The Roots then segue into the title track where Black Thought shows why he’s one of rap’s biggest sleeping giants. Maimouna Youssef blesses the lead single “Don’t Feel Right” with her soulful vocals. Tracks like “In The Music” and “Here I Come” give you the feeling you’re witnessing a skilled rhyme cipher brimming with rebellion and energy. It’s definitely a sight to behold.
Playful MC competition is definitely present when Philly native Peedie Crack makes an appearance on “Long Time.” Peedie holds his own, vibing off Black Thought’s verse and coming in with a tight 16 lines of his own. My personal favorite, “Livin’ In New World,” is a short feel-good track with the breezy flow of a lazy summer afternoon. Black Thought doesn’t get enough props as one of hip-hop’s greats. His rhymes are expertly crafted and contain wordplay that’ll leave you dizzy. He plans his lyrics like chess moves, moving every bar closer to checkmate.
—Errol Pierre-Louis
