From the Web
More on Vibe
Everybody loves a good comeback story. But once that story ends, after you’ve made the grand comeback, then you’re just back. You end up on the first week of The Masked Singer in a robot costume to sell your latest album. It’s a career phase that plenty of rock stars have settled into, and now a generation of superstar rappers is experiencing it as well.
You know how every few years, Bruce Springsteen puts out a new album, and Rolling Stone gives it five stars? A lot of your friends will check it out, but way more of them will go see him next time he tours, because he’s Bruce? That’s the level of comfort Lil Wayne deserves, after enduring contract disputes, legal troubles, and health issues while remaking popular music in his image.
The rapper born Dwayne Carter endured a five-year gap between studio albums following 2013’s I Am Not A Human Being II, possibly due to disputes with his record label. He even released the Tidal exclusive Free Weezy Album in 2015. Following a few mixtapes and false starts, Tha Carter V was finally released in September 2018, debuting atop the Billboard 200 thanks to an adoring public.
A little over a year later, Wayne is back again with Funeral, released Friday, January 31. Funeral is not Wayne’s best work, and it’s a mixed bag at 24 tracks. But the album shows Wayne still capable of great bars and rapping with the same enthusiasm he’s shown off since he was 17 years old, rapping about dodging police on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
Wayne can still deliver great verses when he’s on. “I live the American dream / Foreign everything,” he yelps on “Dreams.” On “Mahogany,” he wraps around repetition of the title phrase like producers Mannie Fresh and Sarcastic Sounds chopping up Eryn Allen Kane’s vocals: “Mahogany sand, boy, I start a sand storm / Mahogany skin, touch me, I cut your hands off.” On “Line Em Up,” he raps “Pistol whip you 'til you know the serial number by heart,” a threat that would make Prodigy proud.
The beats on Funeral span styles as well as eras. GQ reports that some beats were made less than a year before release, while the title track’s beat dates back to 2013. “Funeral” begins with drumless melodrama until the second half beat reveals another follower of the Dreams & Nightmares album intro format. The keys and bounce on “Ball Hard” are influenced by the low menace of Memphis beats. “Mama Mia” is built around post-dubstep shrieks from Some Randoms, and Wayne matches the energy with an athletic display of rapping.
On “Clap For Em,” Lil Wayne shouts commands to twerkers over a bounce beat straight from his hometown. Wayne starts the second verse with “Wobble-di-wobble,” a reference to his own verse on Juvenile’s immortal 1998 song “Back That Azz Up”. The line was also included in Big Sean and Nicki Minaj’s 2011 collab “Dance (A$$).” It’s an oddly poignant reminder of Wayne’s longevity, and this allusion reinforces his status as an important figure in the canon of booty-centric rap songs.
Given Wayne’s numerous hits, nothing on Funeral really sounds like a single in the way “Right Above It” or even “Uproar” did. “I Do It,” a collab with the clashing Big Sean and Lil Baby, was dubbed the first “single” via tweet but expect that to change once the streams gravitate towards a favorite.
“Trust Nobody,” the track with an Adam Levine chorus, would have been huge in 2010 as the soundtrack to a Call of Duty commercial. The hook’s fake deep cynical ethos is not far removed from Eminem’s Recovery or Wayne’s own “rock” album Rebirth. Now, it just sounds like a relic, but like Eminem, the anachronism won’t keep Wayne from debuting atop the Billboard 200.
“Wayne’s World” comes close to grating with its obvious Myers and Carvey sample, but the exuberance in their voices works. The track succeeds thanks to the beat by Manny Galvez and Louie Haze; it sounds like a machine ascending at light speed, over huge drums. Hearing Wayne rap “Party time, excellent” is so fun!
Most of the featured rappers accentuate Wayne at his carefree best, including songs with Lil Twist, O.T. Genasis, and Jay Rock. Takeoff sounds fantastic paired with Wayne on “I Don’t Sleep.” The two ping-pong around a P’ierre Bourne-esque beat with nearly audible smiles. “Me without the paper is like Tune without the lean / Or Phil without the rings,” the Migo raps.
2 Chainz appears for a Collegrove reunion on “Know You Know.” Lines like “I’m an ex-drug dealer / Get a rush when the egg sizzle” are enough to boost the song beyond its lazily misogynistic hook.
It’s beyond the scope of one critic, certainly this one in particular, to claim where the line for good taste exists in rap, if indeed it does at all. But the worst lines on the album aren’t just in poor taste; they’re boring, stripped of the jaw-dropping associations that prime Wayne used to generate between breaths.
“Bastard (Satan’s Kid)” shows Wayne adapting to the style of XXXTentacion, an artist he himself influenced, like Earl Sweatshirt with MIKE or Pharrell with Tyler, the Creator, except much worse. Its hook urges mistrust of women with a mean-spirited joke. The bad guy cliches just sound like a surly posturing teenager. XXX appears posthumously on the following track “Get Outta My Head,” and it’s similarly joyless. On “Mama Mia,” Wayne raps “blunt looking Cuban / My eyes look Korean.” It’s not just a racist joke, it’s one that’s been told a thousand times. Wayne’s a better writer than that.
Wayne records constantly, and he narrowed his work down to 72 songs for Mack Maine’s consideration and curation. The Funeral leaks that emerge in the coming weeks will likely include gems that will seem unthinkable to leave off the final project, like Tha Carter V before it. But Lil Wayne’s best work has never been contained by the record label economy. It’s reminiscent of the fiery prolific rapper Sada Baby releasing his New Year’s Day 2020 project on Datpiff.
Knowing that Wayne leaves his tracklists to associates to decide, it’s easy to ponder an auteurist Lil Wayne album, one where the Martian writes to an overarching theme. Wayne takes pride in his ability to stick to the subject in his verses and songs, comparing his early raps to school. “You’d want to be the guy that turns in the best paper, and so I would always try to be the guy who’d stick to the subject the most in my verse because I knew everybody else is about to get on this song and still try to find a way to talk about something they really want to talk about,” he recently told Entertainment Weekly. Could that focus craft a self-important would-be instant classic, maybe condensed into a more manageable package?
But that’s not what Lil Wayne does, and who can fault him with sticking to what he does best, over two decades into his career? Mess with the formula too much and end up with Clapton’s Unplugged or ballet scores by Elvis Costello. The hard drive dumps direct from Wayne’s brain have been vital to rap music for many years, and we can hope there’s many more in our future. Catch Lil Wayne on tour this summer, where a few of the Funeral tracks will sound great next to all the hits.
Hip-hop savant Mac Miller’s death in Sept. 2018 shook the music world to pieces, because it was such a startling example of potential cut short after showing so much growth. Artistically, Mac ascended from early perceptions as a vapid frat rapper into a serious, well-rounded musician who offered soulful production, tender vocals, and was ambitious enough to bar up with hip-hop’s best lyricists and serve as a hub for some of Los Angeles’ most talented artists. But a big reason why his music was loved so much was because of his vulnerability: Mac created art that attempted to battle depression and substance abuse, which appear to have eventually taken his life. Swimming, the album he released less than two months before his death, saw him take on those demons face to face – and the new posthumous LP Circles, which Miller’s family reveals was well into production at the time of his death, was meant to be a “companion” album to its predecessor, with a concept of “Swimming in Circles.” Such a sudden death will always haunt those who loved him, but Circles could give fans closure and healing that Mac seemed to never receive.
Circles embarks where Swimming ends with more exploration of self-discovery, seeking understanding, and working towards becoming a better person. Both records mirror what many millennials are currently facing when it comes to their mental health. Mac Miller was gripping with his desolation, battling his vices and dark thoughts, but pursuing peace and refusing to apologize for his mistakes. Despite knowing how his personal story ends, his honesty and vulnerability prompt you to root for him to make it to the other side. His confusion and frustration, like many millennials, are reflective of feeling defeated by waves of emotions with the understanding of the world as well as ourselves. According to a report released in 2019 by Blue Cross Blue Shield, millennials are seeing their physical and mental health decline faster than Generation X as they age. The report showed that depression found in American millennials increased by 30% between 2014 and 2017. However, unlike previous generations, adults between the ages of 23 to 38 have become open about their struggles with mental health. Mac Miller died at age 26, and Circles showcases his willingness to share his battles.
In a Buzzfeed article, written by Anne Helen Peterson explained how millennials are becoming the “Burnout Generation” from the intense pressure of emulating a life similar to our parents had. This isn’t surprising as many millennials have experienced the 2008 recession. After graduating, many found entry-level positions do not pay a livable wage. The constant news cycle being available to us through our phones, social media, the desperate need for a work/life balance, and the opioid epidemic have all been linked to the deterioration of this generation’s mental health. From the outside, Mac Miller seemed to have everything right – a successful career, the access to do what he’s passionate about, and money – but his lyrics show that he was also dealing with being burned out like many of us. The most relatable song on the record is the synthy “Complicated,” where Mac laments the constant traffic running through his mind. “I’m way too young to be gettin’ old,” he tragically observes, questioning why he’s dealing with so much daily stress. In the following Disclosure-produced track “Blue World,” Mac honestly raps about the the ups and downs of depression: “think I lost my mind, reality’s so hard to find/when the devil tryna call your line.” Mac Miller was battling his opiate addiction and his breakup with pop star Ariana Grande during the creation of his final two albums, and Circles depicts a man exhausted from his constant hurdles.
The somber tone of Circles blends the jazz-hop of Divine Feminine (“Hand Me Down,” “Good News”), the lo-fi of Swimming (“Woods,” “Once a Day”) and indie rock vibes (“Everybody,” “That’s On Me”), similar to his Tiny Desk performance. “Blue World” and “Surf” are the only songs where you’ll hear Mac rapping, whereas the rest of the album shows his vocal range that sets the mood of his emotions. While the musicality certainly deserves some attribution to producer Jon Brion (Fiona Apple, Kanye West), who also worked on Swimming, it’s also a testament to Mac’s own artistic progression over the last ten years. He learned to use a variety of tools by the time of his death, and that was on display here.
The breezing tranquil rhythm of “That’s On Me” is one of the more positive vibes on the album, feeling content with what’s happening. Listening to the lyrics after knowing how this chapter ends is hard. “I don’t know where I’ve been lately, but I’ve been all right/I said good morning this morning and I’ll say goodnight,” Mac says. With the beautiful production and his willful vocals, it makes us know that there was a time where he felt okay through it all.
Millennials are breaking the cycle of other generations that didn’t tend to their emotional and mental needs. Whether it’s through humorous memes on the internet or healing crystals and meditation, they’re finding new ways to develop self-care and improve their health. Circles and Swimming were therapeutic for Mac, a window into his psyche and his therapy sessions to see the multiple layers of who Malcolm could have been. Hopefully, they can help his fans process their pain as well.
Upstart Minneapolis musician Prince Rogers Nelson released an album per year after his 1978 debut, For You, each more sophisticated than the last. But 1999 made Prince a star and solidified his place in music history. After its release in October 1982, the album peaked at No. 9 on the Billboard 200 and became the fifth-best-selling album of the following year. Singles “1999” and “Little Red Corvette” peaked in the top ten of the Billboard Hot 100, and their videos were some of the first by a Black artist to be shown on MTV. Prince’s classic has now been reissued by Warner Bros., with a remaster of the original album and hours of previously unreleased material.
The good news is that the record still sounds as fantastic as it did the first time you heard it. The title track’s synth fanfare heralds your entrance into a new world of grinding machinery and pulsing libido. It’s like Dorothy opening the door to Oz, but everything’s gone from black and white to shades of purple. Across 11 tracks and 70 minutes, Prince uses dance beats, slow jams, ballads, call and response funk, rock guitar solos, all toward one spiritual purpose: sex. It’s not all crude either. He will pretend to be married if you prefer the illusion of propriety, and he uses “Free” to give thanks for a society that allows him to pump out albums worth of filth and funk.
Like the narrator making dedications in bed on “Lady Cab Driver,” each moment on the album points toward a predecessor in pop and funk: James Brown’s yelp, Larry Graham’s slap, Jimi Hendrix’s guitar heroics. Prince threw in the now-iconic sounds he wrung out of a manipulated Linn Drum Computer and pushed American popular music into the future. The warped drum programming was deeply influential on the emerging sounds of Detroit techno and Chicago house, and it’s stayed relevant into the present where the likes of Billie Eilish and FKA twigs top charts and critics’ polls singing over brittle beats.
In line with the other best updates to classic works, the new remaster is hard to notice. In general, the 2019 version of the album is a little clearer and a lot fuller. It’s the equivalent of watching a favorite movie in HD for the first time. The opening notes of “D.M.S.R.” flit across the sides of the song, rather than sitting in the middle of the stereo mix. Rather than blending together, the layers of bass guitar on “International Lover” now curl in on each other like puffs of smoke. Prince’s vocals, like the coos that become shrieks on “Little Red Corvette”’s bridge, are still kept at a remove through reverb, but the effect doesn’t lessen their power.
The reissue’s second part includes B-sides and alternate edits of album cuts. The majority of these tracks would be inessential even if this was their first time available digitally. A mono single edit of “1999” is an interesting relic of another era in major label promotion, but why opt for the watered-down version? The keepers are the B-sides, including one-take studio wonder “How Come U Don’t Call Me Anymore,” and the eight-minute Special Dance Mix of “Little Red Corvette,” which is a dancefloor filler in addition to a historical artifact; Questlove contends it was one of the first times an artist ever remixed their own track.
For casual fans and completists alike, the heart of the 1999 reissue is the nearly two dozen previously unreleased tracks, recorded between November 1981 and January 1983. Prince was in the middle of an incredibly fertile hot streak, writing and recording songs for himself as well as satellite groups The Time and Vanity 6. As his engineer Peggy McCreary pointed out in a recent interview, without the need for a producer or supplementary musicians, the artist was free to spend his recording budget on studio time. “I think he loved being in that environment, because I know, wherever he was, on tour, if they had a day off he would find a studio in that city,” she said. “That's what he loved to do.”
Listeners can now hear some of Prince’s process at work through these unreleased songs. “Feel U Up” is close to a demo, a groove that runs a few minutes too long and a vocal that’s too sheepish to sound coy. The next track, “Irresistible Bitch” from 1981, builds a new song over the same beat with nimble bass, unfurling synths, and new lyrics. Prince goes all out on his vocals, his voice ragged and hoarse like he’s been driven mad with lust. Those vocals give the earlier version the edge over Prince’s more subdued take of the song, recorded and released in 1983 as the B-side to “Let’s Pretend We’re Married.” It’s compelling to see what Prince found ready to release at any given time, to hear a seed of an idea grow from a rasp to backing vocals from Wendy & Lisa. The artist would regularly repurpose old tunes, none here more obvious than the would-be generational anthem “Bold Generation” morphing into “New Power Generation” eight years after its initial recording.
Prince lays out his own personal manifesto on “Purple Music” over a spare drum loop. “Ain’t got no theory, ain’t got no rules / I just let the purple music tell my body what to do / And I’m high,” he sings, his voice mixed like he’s found an undiscovered altered state. It’s mesmerizing. The song has been widely bootlegged, but the ancestral hiss of copies of copies of cassettes can’t compare to hearing all 11 minutes in high-quality. 1999 was the first time Prince laid claim to the royal color, including reference to his “purple rock” on “D.M.S.R.” and purple stars on “Automatic.” “Purple Music” makes it clear the color was more than an aesthetic affectation, it was ideal to pursue.
Playing with sexual and gender norms was a cornerstone of Prince’s work, and “Vagina” shows that his most transgressive material went unreleased. Prince sings about the titular person teaching him how to dance in a gay bar over gritty guitars. (No drums, but his beatboxing and other vocal rhythmic cues sound a lot like his peer and rival Michael Jackson.) She’s “half boy, half girl, the best of both worlds,” as he sings on the chorus. It’s a simple love story, complicated by a fluidity that still feels novel today.
All the unreleased material sounds fresh, impressive nearly four decades removed from its recording. (“You’re All I Want” is clearly a recycled “Delirious,” but it gets a pass since it was recorded as a birthday gift to longtime engineer McCreary.) “Money Don’t Grow On Trees” is a slice of driving pop-rock with a charmingly anachronistic Fred Astaire reference. On “If It’ll Make U Happy,” hear the artist dabbling in reggae rhythms with a new wave sheen. Released as a single earlier this fall, “Don’t Let Him Fool Ya” sounds like Prince in his funky prime because that’s basically what it is.
Posthumous releases always occupy a moral gray area, but Prince kept a literal vault anticipating that some of his material would see the light of day. Michael Howe, archivist for Prince’s vault, recently stated his goal is to “shine a light on the entirety of Prince’s creative legacy”, and the 1999 reissue succeeds. The remaster preserves the album’s sound for future generations to draw from. Prince’s unreleased material illuminates the creative process of one of the most important pop musicians in American history. Parties weren’t meant to last, but the deluxe 1999 should keep it going a few hours longer.