GoldfrappSeventh TreeMute U.S.Feb. 26, 2008
The last thing an artist should want to be told upon releasing a new album is that it's safe. Why? Because safe is worthless. Risk, at least, gives the artist some manner of credit for trying something new, for seeing what could come about from a new sound, and possibly giving themselves material to build off of for their next album.
In that sense, Goldfrapp's Seventh Tree, released Feb. 28, is a disappointment. It is safe. Better known for their indie dance(ish) music, Goldfrapp has taken what is otherwise quite a decent sound, a fun one at least, and sapped it of its energy to pass it off as something more serious.
The English duo (Alison Goldfrapp on synthesizer and vocals; Will Gregory on synthesizer) formed Goldfrapp in 1999 and remained mostly under the radar until Black Cherry (2003), which took them farther from the ambient sound of their 2000 debut album Felt Mountain and closer to the electronic dance music fetishized in the 1990s. They reached the peak of their popularity with 2005's Supernature, which had three number one U.S. dance songs and earned the group a nomination for "Best Electronic/Dance Album" at the 49th Grammy Awards in February 2007.
With this album, it seems Goldfrapp was trying to venture into "serious" music; that is, backtrack from the dancing beats and creativity that made them likeable, returning to the washed-out, ambient sound of their first album.
I admit I'm being hard on Goldfrapp: If produced by an up-and-coming band, brand new to the industry, I would not have been nearly so disappointed by the lack of momentum in the album or in the songs themselves. But coming after a Grammy nomination for one of the most typically "fun" genres, electronic/dance, it is sorely lacking. Their two prior albums were seductive and easy to listen to, but were exciting, layering sweet vocals and gritty synth, experimenting with complementing electronic sounds both metallic and feminine. This one maintains the sweetness of her voice, some electronic sounds and palatability, but the electro minus the dance brings it dangerously close to New-Age ambient.
The album actually begins relatively strongly. The first track, "Clowns," features Alison Goldfrapp's lovely vocals, high and wavering and entirely indecipherable. The layering of, surprisingly, an acoustic guitar that mimics classical guitar and a synthesizer create a chill, washing sound. At their best, Goldfrapp evokes what Rolling Stone has called post-party chill-out music.
Sometimes they do exciting things like break out into drums and louder, more insistent vocals, shifting rhythm with triplets, as they do at the end of "Little Bird." "Happiness" and "Caravan Girl," too, are a bit bouncier and livelier. The latter features a classic drum set and harmonizing female vocals, reminiscent of a cuter, happier Garbage. It seems that the songs that are the most successful don't take themselves too seriously.
On the other hand, the ones that are more less fun are too wishy-washy-ambient to really take seriously. Unfortunately, hushed vocals over hushed instrumentals get very old very fast. Sia, one artist whose sound has been compared to Goldfrapp's, is also prone to floundering in her electronic waterworks, and fans of hers will find some songs here appealing regardless of whether or not I am bored of them. However, I do take offense to the Los Angeles Times's comparison of Goldfrapp to Air: The latter takes great care to change their song patterns, to bring in new, distinct sounds and to maintain momentum in their songs so that we do not forget the album immediately after hearing it.
Altogether, Seventh Tree is not that extraordinary, but it is easy to listen to. Nothing is particularly offensive, but nothing really sticks out either. Despite some enjoyable songs, after listening to the album, there was no single track I really remembered, whether for an interesting sound or good lyric. It was all rather washed over, and maybe washed out.
-Vanessa Verdine
WebbieSavage Life 2Asylum RecordsFeb. 26, 2008
Savage Life 2, Louisiana rapper Webbie's most recent attempt at justifying southern hip hop's protracted and mostly unenjoyable tenure, will probably be enjoyed predominantly by hip-hop's detractors rather than its fans. Webbie is in an almost unique position to be noticed in the media while at the same time exhibiting the truly horrible sub-mediocrity that would otherwise keep a marginally worse rapper neatly contained in obscurity. The task of pinpointing what is specifically so bad about an album like Savage Life 2 is difficult. Perhaps the only impressive aspect of the album is how it almost conceals its own inadequacy from one track to the next. Webbie and the production work he raps over are so forgettable that you're left annoyed and offended without really remembering what was so bad about whatever you were just subjected to.
The usual saving grace of bad rap is good production; the sort of music you can put on in the background while you're cleaning out your desk or raking leaves because the sounds of 50 Cent's voice and a Just Blaze beat are more amusing than silence. But at no point across 16 tracks does Webbie's production team try to execute more than heinously dull, mushy, southern muzak beats that drown the listener in tinny drums and low-rent hand claps. If Webbie is half as rich as he fronts throughout this album, you'd think he could have at least paid for someone better than Mannie Fresh to put some pretty paint on his own lyrical train wreck.
Webbie never succeeds in being anything more than generic and stupid, and it's hard to find any evidence that he hopes to be anything more than that. The album lacks any semblance of effort, imagination, ingenuity or anything even resembling interest in his subject matter.
The album is more or less what concerned parent groups and ignorant, scared grandparents claim they hate about rap. Webbie tackles the terribly commonplace with nothing but an irritating voice and mushy flow. He has nothing to say, and he says it quite poorly.
If you have been listening to music in 2008, dejected, disappointed, lacking an album in your life with which you can consider how much Webbie does or does not enjoy weed, diamonds, money, women, cars, money, weed and weed, your year is suddenly looking up. If you're desperate to fill up a 160 GB iPod, at least listen to the first 15 seconds or so of "I'm Hot" before downloading: "I'm hot, it's my turn/I wouldn't touch me 'cause my hand might burn/I'm cold, you already know..." If this is what passes for rap this year, then shame on the south, and the genre in general.
-Sam Biddle
