lundi 12 Nov 2007, 18h18m

In her Patternists series of books, science fiction novelist Octavia Butler delivers a world ruled by shape shifters and living ghosts.

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But as with all things brilliantly Butler, it is more complicated than that–the beings (not quite human, but grounded in earthly desires) fight convention even as they seek acceptance among others of their own powerful kind, as well as from those who have no interest in understanding them (read: scared to death of the unknown). They are mad geniuses, whose own intelligence often turns their good intentions inside out, creating havoc where peace is genuinely sought.

In the month that has stretched between OTS posts, I have encountered a high quotient of wild seeds. Artist Kara Walker has taken over New York’s Whitney Museum with her towering, startling show, My Complement, My Enemy, My Oppressor, My Love, that harshly dissects the twin horrors of American slavery and racism via the newly revived medium, silhouettes; sexualized slave, master, and child are presented in too familiar caricatures of both blacks and whites.

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After reading several magazine profiles of Walker, I believe she is a deeply conflicted woman, whose otherworldliness lies in her willingness to openly discuss her own uncertainty with race and history, especially when it comes to her personal life: Walker is black, and is currently divorcing her white husband. Here work should be seen for the gut punch it lands to your political sensibilities.

Saul Williams also takes on racism through the utterance of the “N word” on his new album, The Inevitable Rise and Liberation of NiggyTardust, which was produced by NIN's Trent Reznor. Marrying rock and hip hop is nothing new, and Williams has been doing it for years. While I still heavily favor his last, self-titled album, NiggyTardust has moments of profound madness and eloquence.

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The title track has a running pulse that is sawed with a squiggly effect that could be an augmented fart. The chorus comes in on a tub of spaced out bass and a call and response so hilarious and heartbreaking, you will play it again to chose which emotion you want to take on. It is Prince, David Bowie, and Andre 3000 all rolled into one. Williams is too intelligent to be polarizing, and it becomes clear that the message here is not whether one should utter the word, be punished for using it, or even if its ownership is a certainty. Unfortunately, Reznor’s hand is too heavy on some of the tracks, and his signature aluminum wall of sound is fatiguing and, dare I say it, boring at times (DNA and WTF). NiggyTardust works best when Williams and the music are given room to breathe and spread out, as on the wonderful “Scared Money”, which channels Fela Kuti and Tupac with its thug poets storyline and African rumble beat. In fact, Reznor seems to take a leave of absence on the second half of the album, and that is where most of the best tracks percolate. A three-star effort from a five-star poet. Try it.

Anyone who knows me, knows of my love for Burial, the elusive South London dubstep artist that has been blowing minds and swelling hearts since his self-titled debut two years ago. Like Banksy, he has rarely been photographed and only a handful of people know he is Burial, which in and of itself has added to the frothing allure. His second album, Untrue, solidifies the legend and legitimizes the obsession that grips his many fans. Like its predecessor, Untrue is soaked in 2 AM static, and the smudging of distant voices that drift above, below, and behind rattling keys, the insertion of gun clips, snatches of overheard tunes, and the gloomy aura of a slow drizzle.

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Many critics have noted that while the first album lingered in the dark recesses of this near fantastical late night after-party vision, Untrue is crisscrossed with shafts of light thanks to the voices littering most of the tracks. While I agree with this, the menace still lives very close to the surface. “Archangel” the most loved track on the album, starts with a gutteral bass, vinyl-popping static, and a soul singer literally wailing about a love that might or might not be around for too long. Loneliness and desperation is conveyed in Burial’s expert manipulation of that voice: he makes it tremble, crack, and beg, “tell me I belong.” On “Near Dark”, the narrator can’t take his eyes off a girl, but at the same time he envies his object of desire; the contradictory sentiments are raked through thick, entangled chains, drowned in a bottomless, excited bass, and smeared across the entire track thanks to a vocoder; it is the messiness of obsession personified. “Etched Headplate” begins with a wonderful familial speech about a possibly wayward relative, and segues into a lovely chorus of hums and unintelligible vocalizing that is both warm and catchy. It is this ability to marry emotion to a genre that is concerned more with dancing that has brought Burial so much well deserved recognition. His work might not be for everyone, but for those that get it, it is addictive, memorable, and endearing.

The first time I really decided to pay attention to Roisin Murphy, I was living with a depressed guy and his equally depressed, but adorable dog in Brixton. I was having one of those mind-numbing afternoons where I was thinking entirely too much about the circumstances I’d found myself in: living with said flatmate, a partner who was going all wonky on me, and a job which gave the illusion of bohemian freedom without the joy of certainty. I was on a deep red couch, flipping through the channels, and suddenly there was Roisin, her ginger hair aflame, her limbs robotically wreathing, and her cooing, “if we’re in love, we should make love”. The 80s sax line, the muted Arrested Development yelps, and her sweet voice made me giggle. The next day I went to HMV and bought Ruby Blue, her debut, solo album after years of jobbing with Moloko. It seems that only me and a handful of other people bothered to take her seriously, which I find maddening because Murphy is one of the smartest pop singers putting out albums today.

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On her second offering, Overpowered, she raises the bar on lyricism by being purposely literary and literal. References to primordial soup (“Primitive”), complicatedly spelled sex hormones (“Overpowered”), global warming (“Dear Miami”), and stalking (“Checkin’ On Me”) are wrapped in fabulous disco grooves and 80s reminiscing that adds sugar to the medicine. But most intriguing is Murphy’s voice which can go from solid to soaring in a half note, as she does on the stout, “Tell Everybody”–a track that vaguely evokes Kanye West’s “Jesus Walks” with its gospel marching woos–and on the title track, which sits her voice on several different aural planes throughout.

Like my epiphany on that red couch in Brixton, Magnet’s third album, The Simple Life attacked my synapses when I was thinking about something potentially devastating. This time, I was walking along Broadway in Manhattan. It was dark and brisk, and the funk I was in was most likely written all over my face (the tourists gave me a wide berth). To avoid listening to my own heady whingeing, I popped in my earphones and blam, Magnet’s “The Gospel Song” cheerful clapped its way through my brain…for a breakup song, it was so fucking happy and in line with how I wanted to feel that I actually managed to crack a smile.

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This brightness is maintained throughout the entire album, which in true Magnet fashion is laden with strings, flutes, cellos, and majestic drums, coyly played piano, whistles, and his immaculate, woozy vocals. The reggae-fied “She’s Gone”, about being left by his girlfriend, is a musical oxymoron, as the depressing subject matter is subverted by the skanking guitars, the whimsical whistling, and the near nursery rhyme chorus, which begins, “Oh mockingbird, have you ever heard …” This is something of a forte for Magnet, nee Even Johansen of Norway, who like many of his fellow Scandinavian musicians, always seem to find the sunlight in the darkest of places. His silver linings vibrate magnificently.

Reading Material:
Due to the thanksgiving holiday coming up, we are holding the second book club meeting a little later than usual. I’ve got through three quarters of “The Brief Wondrous Life…”, and I highly recommend it to all of you. Juno Diaz is a fantastic storyteller who moves effortlessly between voices and time. His deceptively simple delivery belies a textured, sorrowful world. Seek this and his first novel, Drown, out.

For the next meeting we will discuss:
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The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao