BLAKE LEWIS
Audio Day Dream
(Arista)
Blake Lewis doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who watches
American Idol. The popular narrative is that he stood out on
the show as something of a freak—not in the train-wreck style of
William Hung or Sanjaya Malakar, but as a genuine music lover with a
breadth of taste (from Seattle’s Blue Scholars to trance douche BT to
local drum ‘n’ bass monster KJ Sawka) and a weapon of choice
(beatboxing) not often seen on the program. In a machine designed to
create massively palatable, middling pop stars, Lewis looked like a
possible monkey wrench. He finished
in second place.
It’s disappointing, then, but not entirely surprising, that his
debut album, Audio Day Dream, washes out whatever stylistic
quirks or ambitions Lewis may have hinted at on the show in favor of
predictable, vanilla pop. Audio Day Dream casts Lewis as a
budget Justin Timberlake, only without JT’s blown-out personality or
the considerable muscle of Timbaland’s futurist production (again,
Audio Day Dream gets the budget version; most of the album is
produced by Ryan Tedder of OneRepublic, whose current radio monster,
“Apologize,” is itself a
Timbaland joint).
Additionally, some of the choices here are just bizarre. “Gots to
Get Her” inexplicably bites Taco’s “Puttin’ on the Ritz” for its verse
and the Hollywood horn stabs of Beyoncé’s “Crazy in Love” for
its chorus. “Surrender” flubs a decent melody with lyrics more
befitting Kirk Van Houten’s “Can I Borrow a Feeling?” (“two hearts that
need some healing”). Lupe Fiasco is game on “Know My Name,” but his
boasts could’ve been phoned in by anybody (one can’t help but think of
T.I.’s fully invested heat on “My Love”). And the album is bloated with
forgettable ballads.
Which is not to say it’s without its moments. The warmed-over funk
of lead single “Break Anotha” is briefly livened up by a double-time
jazz break. Cold breakup ballad “How Many Words” is for the most part
merely inoffensive, but its voice-scratching chorus is legitimately
catchy. The alternating falsettos and talkboxes and mess of video game
blips on “She’s Makin’ Me Lose It” is satisfyingly busy. In these
too-brief flashes, Lewis’s potential peeks out from under the
test-marketed sheen, but it’s not enough to make Audio Day
Dream a reverie instead of a snooze. ERIC GRANDY
Blake Lewis plays Thurs Dec 20 at Showbox at the Market with the
Mob Law and Doxology, 8 pm, $15, all ages.
CAM’RON
Public Enemy #1 Mixtape
(White Label)
Harlem’s savior, the don of the Diplomats—Cam’ron—has
finally returned. Since his high-profile beefs with 50 Cent and Jay-Z
and an alleged altercation with Jay’s boy Tru Life, Cam’ron’s been MIA
like paper planes. The question on airbody’s lips: “Where’s
Cam?” (like he’s some pink-furred Waldo on the periphery of Everyhood,
USA). A lot’s changed in the meantime—Dipset capo Jim Jones,
ballin‘ off his massive hit “We Fly High,” went rogue, talking
down
on his benefactor and even hanging tough with 50!
How do
you bounce back
from such treachery?
If you’re Cam, you reemerge, swagger intact, and drop a double-disc
mixtape brimming with the Technicolor idiot-savant verse that made him
the champion of town-gown-sporting hood denizens and American Apparel
types alike. Nothing on this remarkable collection sums it up better
than the Tony Soprano headache of “Just Us,” where Killa diddybops the
finest of lines between profound and puerile over a hook jacked from
Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing.” At first, Cam’s earnest, solemnly
empathizing with a young mother’s hard-knock life (sick ma, kid with
sickle cell, yadda yadda)—then he proceeds to “Sanchez” her.
Afterward, a thoughtful Cam, apropos of nothing, drops: “Lack of
communication/that there destroys a nation,” and then tops it off with
yet another Dirty Sanchez. Why not?
Like all double discs, Public Enemy #1 has more filler here
than a Yankee Stadium ballpark frank—but the good material, like
the slick, bleacher-stomp of “Can’t Hurt My Style,” is worth the fat.
And even that fat is kind of enchanting—the six-minute spoken
intro is a clinic in arrogant shit talk, and the sumptuously named
“Roaches in the Chicken Skit” is just as incredible as you’d hope.
Immediately following it: a
totally touching song about his dead
homies.
Aw, Cam—who could stay mad at you? LARRY MIZELL JR.
BOYS NOIZE
Oi Oi Oi
(Boys Noize)
Ever since Justice blew the lid off this rock ‘n’ roll/new-rave
clusterfuck, producers have been chomping at the bit to steal their
formula. While most of the results have been pretty lame, Boys Noize
is, for the most part, a rare exception. Cooked up by Berlin-based
producer Alex Ridha, Boys Noize snatches Justice’s most
obvious
sonic trademarks—gritty bass riffs, overcompression, noisy
production—and mixes it with his native country’s way tidier,
motorik techno. The end result purges out both genres’ annoying valleys
without con- sistently reaching either style’s potential peaks.
The track that best realizes the French/minimal connection on Oi
Oi Oi is “Oh!” The song eases up on the ZZ Top distortion, and its
bass line sounds like a linear, controlled riff in comparison to
Justice’s wandering leads. But aside from the differing riff aesthetic,
it’s the drums that really mark this as straight outta Berlin: The
shuffle is all Gary Glitter sway ‘n’ stomp. It lacks the syncopation of
minimal, but it takes a huge hint from the “schaeffel” timing of
producers like Kompakt’s Thomas Fehlmann.
The problem is Boys Noize can’t have it both ways. Ridha can’t ditch
minimal’s boring tendencies and still harness the syncopation; he can’t
tame the French house bass line and still have the wild energy. So,
what he often leaves you with on Oi Oi Oi are tracks that
almost hit the sweet spot… right up until the final two
tracks. “Frau” and “My Moon My Man” (a remix of the same-titled Feist
song) are like companion tracks to “Oh!”—proof that when Ridha
actually nails his balancing act, he can beat the French at their own
game.
BRANDON IVERS
Candy cane
Chocolate Santa
Yule log
Fruit cake