R. Kelly. "Love Letter." Jive.
R. Kelly stepped out on stage last month at the 2010 Soul Train Awards and sang his familiar, discomfiting refrain: "There is something that I must confeh-eh-eh-eh-esss." But instead of segueing into "Bump N' Grind," his lascivious early hit from which that line is taken, he did a quick medley of tamer hits then went all out on a performance of "When a Woman Loves," from his new album, "Love Letter." It was stirring and devastating, full of impressive vocal riffs sung heartily, all delivered as if he might not ever get another chance.
When he was finished, hordes of young people dressed for a sock hop rushed the stage and the song switched from ballad to a 1950s jive, with Kelly adopting the squeaky clean demeanor of Frankie Lymon.
Cleansing is very much on Kelly's mind on "Love Letter," his second album since being found not guilty of child pornography charges in 2008. Never less than impressive, in places, it's phenomenal, with Kelly singing as vigorously as ever, on songs that are some of the most elegant of his career. And "Love Letter" is notable for what's largely absent: Kelly's id, which has otherwise gone untamed - on record, at least - for the better part of the last two decades.
Instead, this album leans heavily on gentle adult-contemporary R&B, with hints of Lymon, Jackie Wilson, James Ingram, Alexander O'Neal and more. Forgiveness is at the front of Kelly's mind. "She took me back/after I broke her heart about a thousand times," he sings on "When a Woman Loves," in a performance that's all throat. On "Radio Message," he's meta-pleading for a second chance: "Somebody let this record just rotate/'til my baby come back/Let it rotate."
Some characteristic R. Kelly wackiness remains. "I want to make love in Braille, while I'm feeling on you," he sings on "Lost in Your Love," "I want to drift far out in your waters, girl/and get trapped in your wilderness." And there's "Taxi Cab," about an amorous encounter with a stranger that doesn't even last the whole ride back to his place.
But in the main, Kelly has kept his baser instincts in check, without damaging the creative spark they typically give shape to. What remains are, in essence, secular spirituals, bombastic and warm, meant not to raise an eyebrow.
Throughout this album are moments of homage to Michael Jackson, in whom Kelly likely saw a similarly tormented artist. He closes with a tender version of "You Are Not Alone," which he wrote for Jackson in 1995 and which was perhaps Jackson's last moment of universal acclaim. It took death for Jackson to return to that state of grace; Kelly probably hopes he won't have to wait that long.
- Jon Caraminica, c.2010 New York Times News Service
Sheek Louch. "Donnie G: Don Gorilla." Def Jam.
What better evidence of the downsizing of the record industry than the fact that Def Jam is releasing an album by Sheek Louch?
First, he's no hotly tipped newbie. Along with Jadakiss and Styles P, he's a member of the Lox, who, while never superstars, were central to the Bad Boy roster of the mid-1990s: He was the irascible one. And since then he's had a fitful solo career, releasing a few albums in recent years, all independent following his 2003 solo debut, "Walk Witt Me" (D-Block/Universal); none has resulted in a genuine hit.
This is not the stuff of a major-label comeback, and yet score one for the old guard: Sheek Louch is exceedingly good company on "Donnie G: Don Gorilla." As ever, he radiates pure steroidal enthusiasm, rapping as if it was always Christmas morning. Up against Jadakiss the clinician and Styles P the stoic, he's always been a welcome loose cannon, but his exuberance works on its own terms here, especially on "Club Jam Packed" and the lighthearted "Party After 2": "My white girl is hot too and she like Obama," he raps exultantly. (There's nothing romantic about all that yelling when it's used for seduction, though, as it is on "Picture Phone Foreplay.")
But while Sheek Louch isn't quite as rowdy as he once was, he's trapped in amber, not in any way modern. "I don't use the Auto-Tune, because I'm not too used to that," he raps on "Get It Poppin." Instead he's proudly unreconstructed, a reminder of the bruisers of years gone by, the equivalent of a hockey-team enforcer: "Peace out/before I pull that piece out."
- Jon Caramanica, c.2010 New York Times News Service
Jim Hall & Joey Baron. "Conversations." ArtistShare.
The august guitarist Jim Hall has made his share of supremely intimate duo recordings, some more heralded than others. If you know his work even just a little, you probably know the albums he made in the early-to-mid 1960s with the pianist Bill Evans. Maybe you're also familiar with "Alone Together," a 1972 collaboration with the bassist Ron Carter. More recently there's a live album with the pianist Geoffrey Keezer, and a pair of intergenerational releases with Pat Metheny and Bill Frisell, two of his leading acolytes.
"Conversations" is profoundly different from all the above, beginning with the fact that Hall's duet partner, Joey Baron, is a drummer. From the outset that means there's no melodic or harmonic stimulus for Hall to bend toward or push against. It also means he has to carry those aspects of the music himself. Because Hall has never been a flashy or fulsome improviser, the format carries boiled-to-the-essence implications, the promise of something vital but possibly incomplete.
That presumption short-changes both Hall, who turned 80 this month, and Baron, who is 55. They have strong history together - Baron has been playing in Hall's groups on and off for years - and they share a baseline commitment to lean, unmannered effervescence. On this album, they also share the dragonfly's instinct of alighting on an idea and then, just as swiftly, moving on. Half of these tracks clock in at two minutes or less; "Uncle Ed," a springy country-blues shuffle, lasts all of 47 seconds.
Most of them appear to be spontaneous creations, shaped out of real-time interaction. At times, as on a rolling tumbleweed of a tune called "What If?," that method nudges Hall toward freer terrain than usual, which he negotiates with his usual introspective cool. There's compelling suspense in his process of feeling out each next step, plucking or strumming his way forward, unsure but never lost, And never completely on his own.
- Nate Chinen, c.2010 New York Times News Service