![]() ![]() Then we went into the studio and laid down tracks in GarageBand, the music software. We learned about keys, chords, rhythm, harmony. The next five days were like the dizzying descent into love. Philly soul pulled back the curtain on how difficult the dance could be. SOS reminds us that the journey of self-acknowledgement is beautiful and devastating at once.Opinion Op-Ed: An ode to Philly soul: La-la means more than ‘I love you’ The real hope is to find a moment of clarity about who you could be with someone else, without them, or in spite of them the realization that something powerful remains after all the fear, anger, and resentment has been pushed aside. Lyrically, she’s relentless and perfectly chill, treating flexing as a bloodsport and great sex as a necessary distraction from reality: “Stick it in ‘fore the memories get to kickin’ in,” she teases despairingly on “Nobody Gets Me.” SOS matches the range of its dynamic star, the kind of album where the aching reverb of a song about losing herself in a rocky relationship (“Gone Girl”) rolls seamlessly into the steely bars of an armored response to heartbreak (“Smoking on My Ex Pack”), before SZA ultimately resolves that maybe she’s her own worst enemy.īut the other side of heartbreak is the desperation to be loved the need to chase a high so great, it might ruin you in its pursuit. Make a pop punk song? How about a spare indie duet? Okay, sure-go off, we love it. She proves that not only can she do whatever the fuck she wants, but she can do it better than most of her contemporaries. SZA’s freewheeling spirit shines on SOS because of how easily her vocals flit, dip, and traverse through disparate genres and forms of songwriting. Kenny Segal’s beats are the backbone-switching between gentle and hard, kooky and sublime-and give woods the space to lay out the life lessons, sly jokes, and observations that make the mundane sound profound. Sometimes the fortysomething father of two just bars out, like when he seamlessly weaves the titles of Cam’ron classics into a nostalgic verse about the days when he had nothing to lose. As ever, woods’ raps are stuffed with an overwhelmingly colorful blur of wordplay: “From up here the lakes is puddles,” he observes at cruising altitude, “the land unfold brown and green, it’s a quiet puzzle.” His words on NYC are so alive that you can practically smell the conch fritters frying up in the pan, taste the tang of city tap water, and see him breathlessly chasing down a Brooklyn bus. On the brilliantly bleak travelogue Maps, New York’s indie-rap maverick billy woods floats around like a ghost-from the Netherlands to a Costco in the Midwest, from the backseat of a $300 Uber ride to outside Kennedy Fried Chicken-blowing dope and waiting until it’s time for his next gig. The rapper lifestyle has rarely sounded so unglamorous. Stevens is a ruthless optimist still marveling at the opportunity to live at all diagnosed with the debilitating Guillain-Barré syndrome, he regards caregivers helping him relearn how to walk as “ love in action.” His gratitude is infectious, especially from within grief. “Now punish me.” But he won’t let the heaviness of his admissions crush him. ![]() “I’m drowning in my self-defense,” he sings. On opener “Goodbye Evergreen,” Stevens confronts the instinct to repress grief by bringing his favorite blurred line into focus-is this song about God or a queer partner? He falls to his knees from the weight of a broken heart, pleading for the solace of his past while trying to trust in what the future might bring. Dedicated to his late partner, the album is a humble maturation that pulls together Stevens’ career trademarks in one sweeping motion: the lush folk arrangements of Illinois, the heavenly vocal harmonies of All Delighted People, the electronic grandiosity of The Age of Adz. The specific kind of intimacy Sufjan Stevens summons on Javelin is less about big questions or small details, but rather the act of pouring your heart into a vase that’s already cracking. ![]()
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