June 23, 2003 @ 9:00 pm

Jaheim - Still Ghetto (Warner Bros.)

Jason King

As intense as a Sonny Liston sucker punch, Jaheim’s magnificent baritone blasts out of your speakers and knocks you to the ground.

As intense as a Sonny Liston sucker punch, Jaheim’s magnificent baritone blasts out of your speakers and knocks you to the ground. Though his sound is aggressive and masculine, there’s a disarming tenderness at its core. R&B may be churning out ruffneck Romeos by the pound, but none is likely to be more complex or intriguing than Jaheim. He had major pressure to come back strong after his debut album, Ghetto Love, spawned three consecutive hit singles (“Could It Be,” “Just in Case,” and “Anything”). His record label, Divine Mill, is now betting the bank on him, especially since their other acts, like Next and the chemistry-free duo Koffee Brown, seem to be in limbo. While the music industry continues to serve underbaked pop tarts like Ashanti, many eyes seem to be on golden-throated Jaheim. Still Ghetto deftly avoids the sophomore-album jinx. Jaheim’s voice alone—enriched by hard living and cigarettes—is a marvel of paradoxes. It is by turns vicious and cool, astringent and delicate, implacable and vulnerable. While his rusted timbre and swaggering machismo evoke Teddy Pendergrass, Jaheim’s exquisite phrasing and gentlemanly comportment are pure Luther Vandross. Female spirits haunt Jaheim’s sound, too. Like some of the great New Jersey soul singers who preceded him, such as Cissy Houston and Millie Jackson, Jaheim sings from the marrow and gristle, plumbing the emotional depths of R&B songs with hellfire intensity. The album has no booty-shaking club tracks or obligatory rap cameos—just stellar midtempo street jams like “Put That Woman First” and aching romantic ballads like “Long as I Live.” Jaheim pre-sents himself as a man yearning for a family, tired of running game, but also as an outlaw too restless to settle down. Though otherwise well mannered, he tosses around the word “nigga” more times than a Tarantino script. His song selection is also a study in jarring contrasts. “Everywhere I Am,” a loving tribute to his mother, who died before he became famous, is one of the most moving pop-soul performances in the post-Luther era. When Jaheim achingly cries out “Did you see me on Soul Train,” listeners will find his vulnerability irresistible. But in opposition to that poignant performance, Jaheim drops the offensively titled “Me and My Bitch.” In the absence of superior musical support, Jaheim mines the old school for samples. The first single, “Fabulous,” borrows the probing rhythm track from G&H’s pro-community “Wake Up Everybody” and adds a children’s chorus. It could very well become a post–9/11 ghetto anthem. Sampling the Fantastic Four’s “My Love Won’t Stop at Nothing,” “Diamond in da Ruff,” a toe-tapper about relationship drama, gives shout-outs to dysfunctional couples like Archie and Edith, Ike and Tina, and Whitney and Bobby. Since Jaheim’s rootsy voice seems like a holdover from the ’70s, these references bring warmth to the album. The tunes are hummable, SoundScanfriendly, and more addictive than a bucket of popcorn chicken. But his vocals, which are as nourishing as cracklings in corn bread, cut through the dross of mainstream R&B. Though rife with contradictions—and perhaps because of that—Jaheim can call on soul music’s traditions to point the way to the musical future, and for that we should all follow his shining star.

Article tags: Jaheim, Still, Ghetto, Warner, Bros 

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