Jay-Z – Magna Carta . . . Holy Grail
Uneasy lies the head that wears the hip-hop crown. Shawn Carter’s rags-to-riches storyline has been played out ad infinitum, both in his music and otherwise. Popular emcees tend to struggle to retain the hard-earned street cred of their modest beginnings from the security of their multi-million dollar estates, and none more so than Hova.
Magna Carta… Holy Grail is defined by this dichotomy, the work of a rapper attempting to reconcile his luxurious new life with his destitute old one. On album closer “Nickels and Dimes,” he expresses survivor’s guilt over his ascension from the project housing, whereas “BBC” is an upbeat celebration of his recent business partnership with Pharrell Williams, and interludes “Beach Is Better” and “Versus” include typical Jay-Z boasts, lest his competitors forget his net worth.
Naturally, the shadow of Jay-Z’s producer-turned-rival Kanye West looms large on Magna Carta, and the tinny, electronic production of “Tom Ford” and “Crown” seem cribbed from outtakes of Yeezus. Elsewhere, Hova’s typically bombastic horn sections and throbbing bass-lines reign supreme, as on “Oceans,” which features guest vocals from — you guessed it — Frank Ocean.
But despite Magna Carta’s lofty aspirations, the album is wildly inconsistent. Jay-Z’s raps range from a clever, calm flow reminiscent of his work circa The Blueprint (“Heaven,” “Somewhere in America”) to lethargic, phoned-in drones that make a strong case for the common past-his-prime argument (“FuckWithMeYouGetIt,” “La Familia”).
Magna Carta is definitely a step in the right direction after The Blueprint 3, easily the rapper’s most uninspired effort. Whereas the latter album rarely ventured beyond the usual “I’m rich and you’re not” showboating, Magna Carta experiments with a wide variety of styles and lyrical content.
Even though this approach often comes off as unfocused and contradictory, Jay-Z’s attempts to stay in the game are, more often than not, admirable. Magna Carta is far from Hova’s best work, but its highlights prove that his status as hip-hop royalty need not be questioned.
David Lynch – The Big Dream
Orwellian. Kafkaesque. Byronic. Vonnegutesque. Some creators have styles which are so unique and recognizable that they earn their own adjectives. I’ve used the term Lynchian in everyday conversation — sometimes there’s no better way to describe something that reminds me of David Lynch’s strange, post-modern filmmaking style.
So, is The Big Dream Lynchian? The film director previously released Crazy Clown Time in 2011 to lukewarm critical reception and the bewilderment of his fans. My first reaction upon hearing that David Lynch was pursuing a musical career was disbelief, but we’ve come to expect the man to defy expectations. After all, this is the artist behind the sinister neo-noir Mulholland Drive and the unsettling satire Blue Velvet — not to mention those creepy short films with the bunnies.
It’s hard to separate David Lynch the filmmaker from David Lynch the musician, but frankly, it seems that this connection is the only reason the man is releasing records at all: I find it hard to believe that any record label would sign an unknown artist based on a cursory listen to the tinny, monotonous electro-blues featured on The Big Dream.
The twelve tracks on the album are what I imagine Daniel Johnston would sound like singing into a cardboard tube backed by a middle school-aged Rolling Stones cover band who insisted on producing their record as though it were industrial metal.
The record quickly makes the jump from intriguing to grating to just plain awful, and by the end of its 50 minute runtime, I briefly considered giving up reviewing music and barricading myself inside a glass soundproof room for the rest of my life.
I can only guess what the intentions behind the recording of The Big Dream were. If it was meant to unsettle and alienate listeners, and ultimately make them question why David Lynch is making records in the first place, mission accomplished. Otherwise, this is Lynch’s worst contribution to the cultural canon since Dune.
Throwback: Nick Drake – Pink Moon
Pink Moon was recorded in two nights with only Nick Drake and his producer John Wood present in the studio. His previous album, the lushly orchestrated Bryter Later, suffered poor sales, which only served to bolster the singer’s depression and anti-social behaviour. Two years later, Drake died from an overdose of antidepressants; he was 26.
Though the album sold poorly upon its release, Pink Moon has gradually become recognized as Drake’s finest work, and as one of the best folk music albums of all time. The album’s 11 tracks consist of only Drake’s vocal and finger-picked guitar, save for the title track, which features a tender piano interlude.
Drake’s lyrics range from the hopeful to the melancholic, and his oaken voice is at once beautiful and haunting. Tracks like “Know” and “Parasite” — the latter of which features the eerily prophetic line, “Take a look, you may see me in the dirt” — seem to endorse the popular image of Drake as a despondent vagrant.
But the album’s brighter moments, such as closing track “From the Morning,” paint a different picture. The song is fragile and gorgeous, and features arguably the album’s most optimistic lyrics. Elsewhere, Drake’s brilliantly understated guitar work and quietly moving vocals make for idyllic late-night listening.
Within its concise 28 minute runtime, Pink Moon leaves an indelible mark. The album’s simple, unadorned aesthetic befits its straightforward songwriting. John Wood is often cited as one of the only people whom Drake trusted, and his transparent, bare-bones production shows this trust was well-deserved.
Drake’s life story is ultimately a tragic one, but if nothing else, he loved making music, and his brief yet brilliant discography is a testament to his enduring talent and creativity. Pink Moon remains his strongest work, and his most intimate. Listen closely in the middle of the night, and it’s almost as though you’re in the room with him.
