Last week I put on my reporterâs cap and tried to figure out why all the straight women I know have such massive crushes on Jamie Lidell. Every single one of them is just enthralled with the guy. Even my die-hard rock-chick friendsâwomen who think synthesizers are for recluses and girlie menâget dragged to his increasingly frequent Seattle shows and leave with misty, distant stares and a sudden interest in MIDI routing and Max/MSP.
So I asked around, pressing for details. The first girl I called said something like, âOoh, Jamie LidellâŠâ Pause. âOh, um, were you asking me something?â
Not helpful. So I hung up on my girlfriend and called Tricia. Sheâs a levelheaded and thoughtful friend, usually quick with an explanation for anything. But even she turns into a puddle when you mention the guy.
âOh, that Jamie Lidell, heâs dreamy,â she said.
âCan you elaborate?â
âSoooo dreamyâŠâ
They might not be able to explain it, but Iâve investigatedâand I have some bad news. Your boyfriend (and you, too, my sad-sack male reader) doesnât stand a chance against Jamie Lidell.
Your boyfriendâletâs call him âMattââis okay. Smart, caring, sensitive, kinda funny. Great on paper. Looks a little like John Cusack, if you pound three beers and squint. Heâs chivalrous to a faultâhe even bought you a Bumbershoot ticket so you could see Jamie Lidell, whom you will leave him for as soon as you figure out how.
Because Mattâs nice and all, but he didnât put out Multiply, the best R&B album of last year, a MotownâmeetsâBlade Runner pastiche that was surprisingly unadorned by the heavy electronics that dominated Lidellâs earlier work, such as 2000âs frantic Muddlin Gear or his rackety collaborations with techno producer Cristian Vogel as Super_Collider.
Critics heaped nearly universal praise on the recordâexcept for one, who wrote that âat least half of it could have been made by a talented hobbyist,â probably for the same reason some men will trash-talk Derek Jeter while watching the game with their enrapt, drooling partners.
Your boyfriend doesnât sing in a way that is plaintive and rough and soothing all at once, but Jamie does. His voice slithers around Multiplyâs bed of lo-fi production like itâs a sheepskin rug, grunting and groaning up and down the scale, through lyrics that somehow manage to be both highly literal and slightly incoherent. Your boyfriendâs singing voice doesnât like being in the shower with him, and it frightens the cats.
Your boyfriend has adequate fashion senseâheâd never wear socks with sandals or white after Labor Day, and heâs marginally helpful when youâre picking out skirts. But Jamie struts and swerves around the stage in gold lamĂ© smoking jackets and tuxedo pants, with a towel wrapped around his neck to soak up the gallons of sweat he generates while frantically operating a table full of equipment with a charmingly goofy look on his face. Your boyfriend would look like a tool if he did that. But Jamieâs got style. He could rock socks with sandals, if he wanted to, and he can wear white whenever he damn well pleases, because heâs Jamie Lidell.
And which would you rather hear every dayâyour boyfriend saying, âI feel like crap today,â or Jamie crooning, âThis ainât no way to be/stuck between my shadow and me/couldâve been the sun donât shine/but then Iâll tell you that Iâm doing fineâ?
Granted, your boyfriend does know how to rub your feet in just the right wayâgently pulling on your toes while rolling his fist up and down your arches with just the right amount of pressure and a touch of eucalyptus oil. And he can tell just by looking when you really, really need a foot rub.
But Jamie Lidell can come over to your house, beatbox into a looper unit, overdub it with shouts and mumbled bass lines, add delays and hand-played drum machine patterns, then keep tweaking and expanding it into a majestic curtain of intricate feedback that goes on for six full minutesâand then pull it all aside and belt out a perfectly executed smoky blues number like âWhat Is It This Time?â
You could teach him to do the foot thing.