Pitchfork Review
9.0/10.0 【best new music】
by Grayson Currin, February 9, 2011
In January, Portishead founder Geoff Barrow took to Twitter to snip at James Blake. "Will this decade be remembered as the Dubstep meets pub singer years?" he asked, not naming the 22-year-old producer who, only that morning, was highlighted in the BBC's Sound of 2011 poll. When dubstep boomed and shuddered from Croydon at the dawn of the last decade, Blake wasn't yet a teenager. Barrow, on the other hand, was almost 40 and already on hiatus from one of the previous decade's most influential bands. He'd heard the rise of dubstep-- its cavernous bass, quick-click rhythms, bent vocal hooks-- and the tall, plaid-wearing kid from Enfield must have sounded a lot like its populist fall.
Barrow's dismissal of Blake is, presumably, a defense of dubstep-- the gesture suggests a purist, an elitist, or both. Reconsidered from the other artistic end, however, the implication is that maybe this is the decade where singer-songwriters-- longtime wastrels of pianos and six-strings with three chords-- finally get interesting, manipulating their pretty little voices and best love songs for something more than plain ballads and pleas. In that case, Barrow is right about Blake's full-length debut. Composed of tender torch songs, elegiac drifters, and soulful melodies, Blake's first puts him in the rare company of fellow singers-- Thom Yorke, Karin Dreijer, Antony Hegarty, Justin Vernon, Dan Bejar-- who've recently bent their own lavish voices, not samples, to make interesting pop music shaped with electronics. These songs are bigger than the defense of any microgenre, and, chances are, they'll soon make Blake a star. He deserves it.
Dubstep producer Untold released "Air and Lack Thereof", Blake's first single, on his Hemlock label in 2009; it was solid, slightly spooky dubstep, with drums darting around a sample that kept eroding. Since that debut, though, Blake has slowly focused on crafting songs-- bona fide, three-to-four minute builders-- around hooks. Last year's "CMYK", for instance, spliced Blake's voice with cuts from American R&B to place an indelible hook inside a number that actually progressed through its four minutes. Blake's more recent Klavierwerke EP draped its dance floor intentions around his own sweetly sung voice. And now, he moves still further from abstraction, to verses and even an occasional chorus.
While the songs are the magnetic center here, Blake's musicianship and sonics are equally striking. A "dubstep" producer with a gentle piano touch and an ear for granular synthesis so sharp it will make fleets of laptop toters envious, his toolkit is seamless. The two-part "Why Don't You Call Me" / "I Mind", for instance, opens with only voice and piano, played with the studied delicacy of a classical student. But Blake cuts it short 30 seconds in by splicing and resampling the piano line. He then bends his own voice and sings the lone verse twice, editing and re-shaping it into a new form that bears only the faintest resemblence to its opening source material. In the suite's second half, the vocals become spinning smears that fall into the background. It's the only time on the album where the drum clicks, static bursts, and piano splashes become the essential motion. It's the type of track you might have heard on one of his recent EPs-- the kind Blake purists lament this album's supposed lack of.
With this new LP-- released on a major label on both sides of the Atlantic, no less-- odds are, a lot of people are going to listen, and I don't mean in the tail-eating, blog-bite-blog sort of way. "Lindisfarne II" takes what Bon Iver's For Emma, Forever Ago did best and turns it into a simple, poignant mantra; if it doesn't score the season's end of some prime-time drama, a music director should be fired. The same goes for the album-ending "Measurements", which somehow pulls the sound of a Southern black gospel choir from Blake's laptop and white-boy coo. Feist cover "Limit to Your Love" works in just enough of dubstep's bass flutter and snare snap. If Blake really does cross over and become the pretty white male who introduces a broader audience to dubstep, with its foundations in Jamaican music and black musicians in South East London, he'll receive the tired, requisite backlash. But these 11 songs-- gorgeous, indelible tunes that are as generous in content as they are restrained in delivery-- will last a lot longer.
by Grayson Currin, February 9, 2011
In January, Portishead founder Geoff Barrow took to Twitter to snip at James Blake. "Will this decade be remembered as the Dubstep meets pub singer years?" he asked, not naming the 22-year-old producer who, only that morning, was highlighted in the BBC's Sound of 2011 poll. When dubstep boomed and shuddered from Croydon at the dawn of the last decade, Blake wasn't yet a teenager. Barrow, on the other hand, was almost 40 and already on hiatus from one of the previous decade's most influential bands. He'd heard the rise of dubstep-- its cavernous bass, quick-click rhythms, bent vocal hooks-- and the tall, plaid-wearing kid from Enfield must have sounded a lot like its populist fall.
Barrow's dismissal of Blake is, presumably, a defense of dubstep-- the gesture suggests a purist, an elitist, or both. Reconsidered from the other artistic end, however, the implication is that maybe this is the decade where singer-songwriters-- longtime wastrels of pianos and six-strings with three chords-- finally get interesting, manipulating their pretty little voices and best love songs for something more than plain ballads and pleas. In that case, Barrow is right about Blake's full-length debut. Composed of tender torch songs, elegiac drifters, and soulful melodies, Blake's first puts him in the rare company of fellow singers-- Thom Yorke, Karin Dreijer, Antony Hegarty, Justin Vernon, Dan Bejar-- who've recently bent their own lavish voices, not samples, to make interesting pop music shaped with electronics. These songs are bigger than the defense of any microgenre, and, chances are, they'll soon make Blake a star. He deserves it.
Dubstep producer Untold released "Air and Lack Thereof", Blake's first single, on his Hemlock label in 2009; it was solid, slightly spooky dubstep, with drums darting around a sample that kept eroding. Since that debut, though, Blake has slowly focused on crafting songs-- bona fide, three-to-four minute builders-- around hooks. Last year's "CMYK", for instance, spliced Blake's voice with cuts from American R&B to place an indelible hook inside a number that actually progressed through its four minutes. Blake's more recent Klavierwerke EP draped its dance floor intentions around his own sweetly sung voice. And now, he moves still further from abstraction, to verses and even an occasional chorus.
While the songs are the magnetic center here, Blake's musicianship and sonics are equally striking. A "dubstep" producer with a gentle piano touch and an ear for granular synthesis so sharp it will make fleets of laptop toters envious, his toolkit is seamless. The two-part "Why Don't You Call Me" / "I Mind", for instance, opens with only voice and piano, played with the studied delicacy of a classical student. But Blake cuts it short 30 seconds in by splicing and resampling the piano line. He then bends his own voice and sings the lone verse twice, editing and re-shaping it into a new form that bears only the faintest resemblence to its opening source material. In the suite's second half, the vocals become spinning smears that fall into the background. It's the only time on the album where the drum clicks, static bursts, and piano splashes become the essential motion. It's the type of track you might have heard on one of his recent EPs-- the kind Blake purists lament this album's supposed lack of.
With this new LP-- released on a major label on both sides of the Atlantic, no less-- odds are, a lot of people are going to listen, and I don't mean in the tail-eating, blog-bite-blog sort of way. "Lindisfarne II" takes what Bon Iver's For Emma, Forever Ago did best and turns it into a simple, poignant mantra; if it doesn't score the season's end of some prime-time drama, a music director should be fired. The same goes for the album-ending "Measurements", which somehow pulls the sound of a Southern black gospel choir from Blake's laptop and white-boy coo. Feist cover "Limit to Your Love" works in just enough of dubstep's bass flutter and snare snap. If Blake really does cross over and become the pretty white male who introduces a broader audience to dubstep, with its foundations in Jamaican music and black musicians in South East London, he'll receive the tired, requisite backlash. But these 11 songs-- gorgeous, indelible tunes that are as generous in content as they are restrained in delivery-- will last a lot longer.
