We can't quite argue that "New Amerykah Part 1 (4th World War)" is the highlight of your career, because you've always been making serious records. There has certainly been a progression of experimentation since the Baduizm days, though ever since "On & On" you've been spinning circles with your three dollars and six dimes. On the latest you've turned thirty-six, which is the human approximation of that 360 degrees. The circles have never stopped in the 11 years between, and the integrity and musicality is, to these ears, the most complete you've created to date. Great artists evolve, and I don't believe there is any argument that you are anything but.
Still, you had our ears. You had our attention and didn't go all the way. You backed out.
There is an old argument about having it both ways. Some musicians feel that music is a sacred and/or social craft, and they should remain separate from the sphere of public (read: political) influence. They label themselves entertainers and want nothing to do with the translations and expectations of third parties in the media or in the headphones. They shy away from affiliation of any kind, even if they make their living from money spent by the public. They are there to divert and delight, not preach or influence.
Others use the microphone and amplifiers as a pulpit for political and spiritual exhibitionism. They work out their own issues in the public sphere, and take you along for their ride. They purposefully influence listeners with their lyrics, not to mention the choice of instrumentation, presentation and tempo -- as sound is as important as meaning. In fact, many traditions consider sound more important than meaning (including America's medieval European roots). In a culture educated and defined by the meaning of words, this seems a stretch, but for innumerable traditions -- which include bhakti yogis, Moroccan gnawas, medieval prose writers and Greek philosophers -- the quality of the word was judged by the effects on the ear, and not the definition on the page.
The best artists fuse these two approaches. They do not shy away from being influential on a political, social and spiritual platform, nor do they sacrifice the quality of the music for any definitive message. Lyricists know the power of words: how they represent varying ideas in different contexts, and that even opposites can play together without friction. This is where you've spent your career, Erykah -- in the world between, a sensuous, meaningful and strong woman not afraid to express the deepest sentiments of your soul without ever sacrificing an ounce of musical ingenuity. "New Amerykah" is no different, which is why the album has not left my iPod queue in the week since it found its way inside the little machine.
I can only imagine that you rejoined D'Angelo for the lush, sparse beat on "Sometimes," an inspirational hip-hop-oriented number that's as close to street gospel as we can get. And "The Healer" sounds like the fusion of Questlove and a pound of chronic. (Hell, that combo would heal most anything.) It's so simple, so easy Erykah, and you make it easy on our ears, even when battling your own at-times (and self-admitted) over-inflated ego on "Me," playing that rough edge between self-sacrifice, self-awareness and everything-for-self. But what matters on these three songs, as they do right up until the dripping cataclysm of "Honey," is the music. You got it like few got it. Every song is a meditation on the vast wonder of the human condition, and your voice is both a fiery catalyst and a soft lullaby.
So it got to me when, at the end of "Twinkle," the music fades into a dissonant deluge of noise (circa Common's "Electric Circus" -- he's still with you in some ways), and a male speaker comes on for a tirade. In that short space, he blames us for being addicted to our idiot boxes, reminds us that our food, air and government is screwed, that we're a violent nation, that times are "worse than bad" and "people are crazy," and that we sit in our comfy abodes and want to be left alone with our microwaves and flat screens. And that he wants us to get angry.
And here was your chance, Erykah, it was right in front of you. By this point, midway through the record, you had our attention. We'd been entranced and enraptured, and most definitely engaged, by your voice, and by the astounding production and warm bass. Then, you missed it. You let him tell us he wants us to be angry, but that he doesn't know what else to do. Just be angry. And in this single moment, as an artist and social entity, you could have offered us something more.
You could have told us to read John Robbins. Or Michael Pollan. Or T. Colin Campbell. Or Neil Postman. Or Harold Bloom. You could have mentioned any of the amazing minds that are putting forth sustainable, realistic and tangible ideas for us to create a better society and not just complain about the one we have. Minds that propel us to action and not just reflection, or worse, idleness and complaint. You could have told us that what we put into our bodies, through the foods we eat, and what we put into our minds, through the media we ingest, really does matter. And to change, we need to take responsibility for our own actions and not simply "get angry."
Damn, Erykah, you had the chance. And you're better than that -- better than the apathetic laziness inherent in the excuse that "I don't know what to do." There's so much we can do, but if we sit around and wait for it to be done, we'll never know what it was that we missed. You hit that point on "The Hump," reminding us yet again that we're all in the same boat, all trying to paddle upstream, all trying to make a dollar out of 15 cents.
By this point on "New Amerykah," with all the affiliations you've declared -- about how those that are perceived as niggers need to be called what they really are: master teachers; about your devotion to Farrakhan; about your headnods to Rastafari and Africa -- you can't say you're only entertaining us. That's irresponsible, and false. And I know deep down you're up for the challenge. It's all over your voice, in the sound of it even more than the meaning. That's why you've created legions of fans, and that's why they're ready to listen. You appeal to their heart more than their intellect, and when the heart informs the intellect (rather than vice-versa), healing begins.
Fortunately this is, as the album title suggests, Part 1. We can only hope that the sequel brings us something more than angriness, than the apathy and vanity involved in the idea that someone else will fix things for us. Anger can be a great tool for transformation -- even Marvin knew that well -- but if it's the end and not only part of the alchemy, there will never be any gold for us as the tunnel concludes.