Missy Elliott
“Ching-a-Ling”
(Atlantic)
In which Missy repeats herself big time: The spoken intro’s bald
rewrite of “Pass That Dutch,” the cod-dancehall “This is a Missy
Elliott exclusive” utterances, the Michael Jackson similes. Even if the
track is, strictly speaking, not something we’ve ever heard in exactly
that same form before, it’s still more of the same, the basic “Work It”
chassis with some “Pass That Dutch” paint. Forgive me for hoping she
could reliably reinvent herself and/or pop music forever. On its own
terms, this is a fine enough record; by Missy’s standards, it’s a sad
encore.
Soulja Boy
“Yahhh!”
(Collipark)
As somebody who has spent more money than is advised on compilations
of the early 1970s Jamaican DJ recordings that prefigure hiphop, I love
the living hell out of this song, which tweaks the same basic pattern
to modern ends. Sure, it’s gauche to complain about being bothered by
your fans when you’re on your third single, but YouTube is everywhere,
right? And anyway, gauche is what Soulja Boy does best—the
sillier the better. How on earth could an onlooker have figured that
this guy could peak so high? Or that the only reason you’d think to
call this a novelty record is that it’s funny?
Yael Naim
“New Soul”
(Tôt ou Tard)
No wonder Feist looked so glum at the Grammys—this song marks
the beginning of the end of her weird yearlong bubble. There’s been
plenty said about “Starbucks folk,” and this is the same thing with a
couple obvious transpositions. (You could call it
you-turn-me-on-I’m-an-iPod folk, with a nod to Joni Mitchell.) Anyway,
whatever Feist’s level of exposure, she’ll never reach the levels of
annoyance this song effortlessly cascades; Raffi has written
tougher-minded music. It’s such trash that I even find Yael Naim’s
accent cloying.
Teyana Taylor
“Google Me”
(Star Trak)
Now this is a novelty hit: a song entirely dependent upon its
moment to work its limited magic—in this case, a chorus so
obvious it barely cuts through a readymade R&B groove. Yet on the
song’s second chorus, Taylor’s “Baby, you can Google me!” is spun off
into some sparkling aural pixie dust that then blankets over all that
immediately follows. It lifts the whole recording; they should have
used it throughout.