Radio Rant: Desiigner – “Panda”

Posted on May 19, 2016 by bgibs122

Hello, and welcome to Radio Rants. Time to strap in.

desiignerpanda

Let’s talk about trends for a second. When a trend’s first starting, it’s usually the result of one or more genuine artists advancing/refining a sound that eventually catches on with influencers and audiences, and breaks out. Inevitably, it peaks, and you get a slew of low-brow imitators who emulate the sonic and visual hallmarks of the trend, but do so with entirely commercial intentions and crappy music (not that the original artists aren’t trying to make a dollar, but artistic vision is still the top priority).

Sometimes, when a trend lasts long enough, you get artists in the middle of these two extremes: they aren’t quite the genuine creators who labored over a sound for months or years, nor are they the chart-chasing carpetbaggers peddling the most commercial form the music possible. Usually, these are the folks leaning a little harder into a trend’s pop abilities, but it’s still coming from a place of artistry; think of it as the “inspired by” standing between “genuinely inspired” and “derived from.” A couple of examples of these middle-brow types are Sixteen Stone-era Bush as the missing link from Nirvana to Nickelback, or the first two Mumford & Sons’ albums bridging the Fleet Foxes/The Lumineers gap

All that is to say that Desiigner is the middle guy for the 808/Atlanta iteration of trap that Future lords over, and my reaction when I hear “Panda” is the same as hearing “Machinehead” or “The Cave”: I’m dimly aware that what I’m being sold is a knockoff, but wheeee. The rise of “Panda” is tied to, among other factors, Future hitting his commercial ceiling; if assists from Drake and The Weeknd aren’t going to get you higher than the 15th spot or so on the pop charts, that’s it. And it’s not like Migos or Young Thug are going to start making radio chasers. There’s clearly a pop market for songs with deep bass, hard snares, and croaking rap deliveries, if only someone was willing to tap into it.

Enter, if unwittingly, freshly 19-year-old Brooklyn rapper Desiigner. When Desiigner released “Panda” last December, he didn’t expect to have the number 1 single in the country for a few weeks, but life had other ideas. And even setting aside the circumstances of how it got here (which I’ll get to in a second), I can see why it caught on: “Panda” for all its faults, is a stupidly good song to hear loud. Desiigner holds his own as performer, but the song’s made by those apocalyptic bells, divebombing snares (both care of producer Menace), and Desiigner’s own so-over-the-top-they-should-sound-dumb-but-oh-wait-they’re-awesome machinegun ad-libs. Now, these are the cheapest of trap thrills, and I start getting antsy 3 minutes into “Panda”‘s 4 minute run time (plus Future is still objectively better at this stuff), but for those 3 minutes? Sure, let’s have broads in Atlanta.

Arguably more than Future, Desiigner owes his success to Kanye. The first time 96% of us heard Desiigner wasn’t on “Panda” per se, but on “Father Stretch My Hands Pt. 2” during the Madison Square Garden premiere of The Life of Pablo. Eight minutes into the album, Kanye delivers an AutoTuned verse about Hollywood destroying his soul and his dad that drops off without warning as a loosely familiar voice croaks “I got broooaads in Atlanta”, leading into a heavy sample of “Panda.” Kanye tosses a few digitized wails and sings “I just wanna feel liberated” between Desiigner’s verses, but otherwise just plays a no-name’s song for a minute in the opening salvo of his record.

The more I think about it, the more I think Kanye made the Desiigner-Future connection as implicit as possible. TLOP‘s previous track (“Father Stretch My Hands Pt. 1”) actually uses Future’s voice for Metro Boomin’s DJ tag, and barely a few minutes later, you’ve got a Future soundalike dropping his most Future-biting line; the common reaction during the Madison Square Garden livestream was “Why’s Future sound so weird?” “Panda” benefited from unique exposure again, as it was widely available as a single while there was no buy (and only one streaming) option for The Life of Pablo for the album’s first month of existence. Had Kanye made the album available right away, people might not have latched onto “Panda” the way they have.

But it’s not like Kanye had to stretch to underline the point. Desiigner’s jacking of Future’s inscrutable delivery feels less like a creative choice, and more like covering his own weaknesses as a writer, much like Bush aping Kurt Cobain’s famously marble-mouthed vocals to hide their own bullshit lyrics. And when you can hear him, he’s rapping about Tony Montana, lean, designer names, and Percs–aka Future’s preoccupations. The guy lives so deep in Future’s shadow that his transparent non-answer to the comparison my be my favorite thing about him. But that’s not enough to make me interested in hearing more.

If it feels like I’ve written more around “Panda” than about it, that’s because the stories around it are more interesting than the song itself. Like I said, it works well enough as radio-trap, and Desiigner’s lively if nothing else (his second verse is actually pretty slick), but right now he doesn’t look built to last. He’s not like Fetty Wap, who broke through on a long-gestating banger and arrived fully formed; he seems like a right place/right time deal. If his career goes on, great, otherwise I hope he at least gets to joyride an X6 before it’s all over. 19 years old with a national hit and a Kanye West cosign; what a time to be alive.

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Album Review: Radiohead – A Moon Shaped Pool

Posted on May 12, 2016 by bgibs122

The internet gets weird during Radiohead season.

Radiohead fanaticism feels hardwired into the net (at least in music circles) in a way it isn’t for anyone else. You can at least hear The BeyHive coming with a constant buzz of “Yaaaas, slay” or see legions of Drake stans tweeting through their #woes. These are invading forces. Meanwhile, when Thom Yorke and his unmerry men make a move, and suddenly it seems like the normal gatekeepers and institutions are ready to bear witness to their lives being changed by OK Computer/Kid A/In Rainbows. This universal acclaim spreads to Radiohead reviews, too. People like, say, Kendrick Lamar and Beyonce might get higher scores, but K.Dot and Bey reviews tend to breakdown and discuss the record’s identity politics, while the glowing prose of Radiohead reviews spend more time extoling their place as Our Most Important Band; their cultural importance and musical brilliance are foregone conclusions. This isn’t a luxury afforded to, like, Pearl Jam. To say or imply online that Radiohead is anything less than the best is the equivalent of questioning American exceptionalism at a political rally, or calling Bruce Wayne overrated before a showing of Batman V. Superman.

I know that reads like the start of a takedown attempt, but it really isn’t. Like a lot of other people, I love Radiohead! They’ve made some of my favorite music! And A Moon Shaped Pool is possibly, probably their best non-classic album, which somehow makes it only fourth or fifth in their discography overall. It’s a desolate album with a lot of gripping moments, but doesn’t quite overcome its weaknesses to be the on-arrival Album of the Year masterpiece people are determined to make it.

A Moon Shaped Pool gets an early boost for the fact that it’s better than 2011’s ho-hum The King of Limbs. Even if pre-release tracks “Burn the Witch” and “Daydreaming” weren’t some of the album’s stronger standalones, they pass the “sounds better than ‘Bloom’” test. Jonny Greenwood’s orchestral string arrangements come to the forefront on “Burn the Witch” as they do for most of the album, where his compositions demonstrate complex moods. The chipper, constant string plucks at the start of “Burn the Witch” almost sound quaint, but the progression gives the song a menacing edge, resulting in a bright tone with shades of dystopia (in other words, it sounds like vintage Radiohead). Meanwhile, “Daydreaming” is a heartbreaker Radiohead ballad that starts quietly, and rises as it emotionally unravels in the vein of “How To Disappear Completely” or “All I Need.” It’s gorgeous.

A Moon Shaped Pool features a lot of material that’s been road-tested, and nowhere does this work better than on “Ful Stop.” Anchored by a few vamping bass notes and light drumming, the song hums along, gradually building energy. A few programmed noises making their way in and out while Yorke starts with an understated vocal. He hones in on the phrase “The truth will mess you up” as suddenly the drums and percussion lock step and guitars fall into place; by the time the song hits the 3:15 mark or so, it’s zipping along with the thrill of five pros in sync. I haven’t sought out any of its live iterations; all I know is it gives the album a much-needed energy boost. “Identikit” comes from a similar place, but doesn’t work as well. It’s built on a tight little drum beat and lightly funky guitar riff with  a pretty slick solo, but the song is too polished and limp to be as satisfying as it could be.

The best song on A Moon Shaped Pool is an oldie, too. Closer “True Love Waits” has been rattling around in the band’s discography since 1995, but shows up here as a layered piano number that is the sound of someone gradually letting go of everything. The fragile, outlined chords are grim from start, Yorke begins with an aching melody that sounds utterly alone, and somehow it only gets sadder from there. By the time those last few watery notes creep to the surface as he pleads “Just don’t leave” as the album ends, he’s disappeared completely. For how much Radiohead are adored as 20th (and now 21st I guess) century doomsayers, their version of the apocalypse isn’t affecting because of technological takeover or the trees or George W. Bush, but because of how damaged and alone these things make us. “True Love Waits” gets that. That’s why it’s one of their best songs.

“True Love Waits” also elevates what’s an otherwise dreary second half. Listeners will pick up early on that A Moon Shaped Pool‘s songs follow a similar structure: a few minutes of organic, loosely psych-folk music with pianos or acoustic guitars, light rising tension, a gentle crest with some extra noise or Jonny’s strings, reduce to simmer. And it works for a while, but once you hit the stretch between “Identikit” and “True Love Waits,” not even the horror movie strings on (*inhale*) “Tinker Tailor Soldier Sailor Rich Man Poor Man Beggar Man Thief” make it stand out much against “The Numbers” and “Present Tense.” It’s the same flaw that plagued The King of Limbs: these are pretty, well-made songs, but not in a way that is emotionally resonant or invites multiple listens. It’s like see where on a wall a painter used different strokes or a roller: some folks think it’s serene and mesmerizing to get lost in the details; for others, it’s just staring at a fucking wall.

That A Moon Shaped Pool is an unfortunately low-energy album overall doesn’t help things. The production values are high, but occasionally too sterile; “Identikit” and “Decks Dark” are good songs with memorable features that are bereft of range. Could you imagine how much cooler it would if the mix had room for that choir on “Decks Dark” or “Identikit”‘s solo? Sometimes the energy’s a perfect fit (“Ful Stop,” “Daydreaming,” and “Glass Eye” spring to mind), other times, Radiohead’s delicate pacing sounds more like disinterest than a profound expression of melancholic enlightenment or whatever. The energy problem on A Moon Shaped Pool is more than the borderline strawman argument that the album’s missing an obvious “2+2=5” or “Bodysnatchers” style rocker; it’s that even quieter songs like “House of Cards” or “We Suck Young Blood” had an urgency missing from chunks of the record. There’s a fine line between expressing muted, aching sadness and monotony, one that A Moon Shaped Pool doesn’t easily traverse.

But when it’s on, it’s really on. I’m already obsessed with a few of the tunes here, one or two more show promise, and I’m sure everyone will spend coming weeks pouring every little detail. When The King of Limbs came out, there was a conspiracy theory that spoke of a second surprise album of material. This time, the theory is that A Moon Shaped Pool is Radiohead’s last record; why else would they commit so many old songs to tape now? I’d be a little bummed if it’s true, but if you’re going to pick one last hurrah, you could do much worse than this. The diehards have their newest masterpiece, and I have an album I kinda love but kinda think is overrated. For Radiohead, this puts everything in its right place.

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Album Review: Drake – VIEWS

Posted on May 4, 2016 by bgibs122

Drake’s career suffered a serious setback in 2015: He won.

Drake won damn near everything last year. He did two successful mixtapes. He headlined Coachella. He reached cultural saturation with a solo hit. He got buff. He dodged (probably true) ghostwriter accusations and straight-up beheaded guy who leveled them against him. These may seem like good things, but they were bound to catch up with him eventually, and hoo boy do they with his disappointing new album Views From the 6 VIEWS. I’ve walked away from this thing with some questions, and in honor of Drake’s love for the 6, here are 6 of them. Let’s begin.

Question #1: Why was VIEWS released in April?
Drake’s music is all frigid, metallic synths, muffled drums, and moody, cosmopolitan soundscapes. Even his biggest singles have a muted quality, like you’re hearing them a room over at a house party while you field a Serious Call or Text From Whatsername. In other words, Drake is perfect cold weather music, a fact reflected in his last three albums’ November, late September, and February release dates.

So then what has VIEWS, an icy continuation of this sound, got to gain from an April release? I suspect that Drake knows whoever controls the summer radio controls the year, and an April release gives him time to set up his (still chilly) dancehall/soca potential singles like “One Dance” or “Controlla” for a mid-summer hit. Which is fine, I guess, but it means listening to the cold introspection of “Redemption” in sunlight, which, like most of this record, feels off.

Question #2: Why isn’t VIEWS a double album?
VIEWS‘ most glaring flaw is its exhausting 82 minute* run time, a problem exacerbated by the relative sameiness of sounds and tempos in its 20 songs. Take Care was over-long, as well, but had enough production variety on a song-by-song basis so that you didn’t feel its length until like 12 songs in (and even then, you still had “HYFR” and “The Real Her” to come). By comparison, VIEWS starts getting into “Fuck, there’s still so much left” territory around the 7 or 8 track mark.

This is bad because 82 minutes is the dead zone of record lengths. It’s too long for one sitting with enough filler (“Fire & Desire”, “Still Here”) to dull the enjoyment of what’s good (“Feel No Ways”), but potentially too short if you split it. The album’s abysmal pacing only hurts things. Either you pare back–not likely, given that Drake’s never made an album under an hour-long–or you add a few songs, loosely separate everything into disc 1 and disc 2, give them both a nice flow, and call it a day. You’ve solved the pacing problem, and put out even more material. Admittedly, this is idea less mine than it is an internet conspiracy theory, but c’mon, it still seems believable, right?

*Or 1.8 Lemonades

Question #3: How is Drake winning such a bad thing?
In short: It’s a bad look on him.

On last year’s mixtape/album If You’re Reading This It’s Too Late, Drake’s persona of the Sensitive Aggrieved Party hardened into something meaner and more insular. It wasn’t that women started treating him right, people started respecting his career, or his enemies disappeared, it was that Drake finally realized he was powerful enough that he didn’t care, and that shift (along with some great songs) is what makes IYRTITL fascinating. Drake on VIEWS treats Tiffany not texting him back or Syn acting different since she had a baby like they’re world-ending events and not, y’know, regular mid-20s shit. The guy’s never jettisoned his petty possessiveness, but the sheer volume of it on VIEWS feels like backsliding.

The album has Drake in retrograde in more tangible ways, too. While the (literal) OVO camp keeps churning out decent to excellent beats, this is the least Drake’s ever tried in front of the mic. He uses fewer and less technical flows, and switches them infrequently while relying on more corny punchlines than he’s used in years. Unforced errors like “You toying with it like Happy Meals” come up on the otherwise great “U With Me?” and the brick of “Got so many chains they call me Chaining Tatum” on a woefully Jay Z and Kanye-less “Pop Style.” Bad decisions can also explain the length: multiple songs have extended intros and outros while others run too long on underdeveloped ideas. This is an album that needed someone to say “No.” Drake probably had that guy kicked out.

Question #4: What are the odds that VIEWS is a “grower” album?
This is actually a pretty fair question since most of Drake’s albums tend to snap into focus weeks and months after their release. In spite of that, I don’t think time will absolve VIEWS of its shortcomings (too long, badly written, too much filler), but will be kinder to its better songs. “U With Me?” is a great slowburner where Drake fires off a lively third verse over a beat that levels the difference between accessible and atmospheric, and even though it’s a “Hold On We’re Going Home” rewrite, “Feel No Ways” has some of the album’s best melodies. “One Dance” is already getting deserved airplay, and I’ll probably warm up to “Too Good,” the Rihanna-featuring probable single. On the rapping front, “Hype” shows what Drake can do when he wants to exert himself. And again, OVO and Drake’s righthand man Noah “40” Shebib have yet to let listeners down on production. VIEWS is getting slammed pretty hard right now in most circles, but come mid-July or August, I’m sure we’ll get a spate of “Oh, it’s not that bad” pieces.

Question #5: What was behind the name change?
The selling point for Views From the 6 was that it would be Drake’s most personal album to date about the city where he’s from. The only time this is really accurate for VIEWS is on its best song, “Weston Road Flows” where he spends his four-minute verse threading his success and hard work back to the titular road where he grew up. The song works because while Drake doesn’t stop during the verse, there’s a warm Mary J. Blige sample playing in the background like a constant chorus. And sure, “My past and my success” is not the most original idea for a rap song, but the execution is there; an album full of “Weston Road Flows”s would have been a classic.

VIEWS, meanwhile, plays as Drake’s least personal album to date, and even a loose “winter to summer to winter” cycle simulating a year’s weather in Toronto and traffic ambiance don’t sell the concept. Perhaps knowing this, he changed the name to more accurately reflect the album’s generic nature. Or he did it for a news story in a week where he could use every one he had, who knows. Speaking of which, our last question…

Questions #6: How much did Lemonade fuck things up?
The answer here is “a lot, but not how you’d think.” At first, the concern was over Lemonade hogging the spotlight: the week leading up to VIEWS‘ release was supposed to be a coronation for Drake, but fucking nothing sucks the air out of the room faster than a surprise Beyonce album; suddenly, here he is announcing a tour, posting credits, and sharing thank you notes while folks poured over this record that fell from the sky like manna from heaven.

But no, turns out that Drake’s sales are fine; where Lemonade really hobbled VIEWS is in presence. Had the album dropped as planned without competition, it would have come and gone as an underwhelming record with a few possible hits. But then, Beyonce puts out a masterpiece right there, and Lemonade‘s surgical precision only makes VIEWS look that much more indulgent and trite. It’s near impossible to compare the two and argue that Drake comes out on top. That comparison makes you hold VIEWS up next to other high-profile 2016 releases, all of which paint it in an unfavorable light: Kendrick wrote and rapped better, Rihanna did a better auteur project, and Kanye put out an erratic-but-definitely-more-interesting mess. Drake’s positioned himself for the top, but forgot something about looking down from on high: Everything Looks the Same.

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Album Review: Beyonce – Lemonade

Posted on May 1, 2016 by bgibs122

Beyonce released Lemonade out of nowhere following her HBO special of the same name last Saturday. This is kind of surprising and kind of not: on one hand, there wasn’t any hard information on an album in the works, but on the other, she dropped “Formation” a few months ago and announced a solo tour, and while the Lemonade special wasn’t advertised as an album, it also wasn’t advertised as not an album, either. That and the whole “Beyonce normalized releasing albums out of fucking nowhere” thing. Like Beyonce, Lemonade comes in both album and visual albums modes. For our purposes here, I’m going to stick with the album as a piece of music, partly the shallow reason that you’re reading an album review on a site called Ranting About Music, but mostly because if someone like Melissa Harris-Perry assembles a crack squad to discuss the film in-depth, you and I are much better off reading them instead.

Before we get to the Lemonade, let’s take a look at where Beyonce is as an artist. More than her considerable abilities, Beyonce’s trademark is her superhuman execution. It’s not enough for her to simply out-sing and out-perform you: she will show up, nail every intricate step in her choreography and every note in whichever hit she’s there for, smile through it all, bow graciously, and leave to go work on her next project. Cut, print, slay. She carries herself with poise and focus during all of this, too; being Beyonce isn’t effortless, (nor is it supposed to be), but you always see her in control. At the same time, her rigid perfection could make it difficult to find an emotional center in her music; when Beyonce songs were sad, it was because they were supposed to be, not because anyone involved was writing them for catharsis. Beyonce included more tangible themes, but mostly functioned as a power move: the music wasn’t just good, but massive, and the collaborative-heavy album and all of its high-production music videos were a complete secret until they were out. That album was an embodiment of everything Beyonce has worked toward.

So then it’s a small miracle that Lemonade improves on just about every front. Like Beyonce, its songs go off like concussive grenades, but the material here is stronger overall without a trace of filler. There’s a level of cohesion here missing from Beyonce’s previous albums, mostly due to its emotional narrative and journey from shock to rage to healing to actualization; this is an album you can truly dig into. And it’s so good just as a listen that any listener can get immersed in it; purely from the surface, Lemonade is the best pop album of the year so far, and that’s likely to hold. Beyonce’s still just as imposing and perfect as she was, but she’s learning how to musically connect in an emotional capacity. For herself, and her fans, this is a good thing. For her competitors (which somehow seems like everyone and no one), this is like that part in Jurassic Park where the raptors learn how to open doors.

Lemonade‘s best run comes early between “Hold Up” and “6 Inch.” The album’s narrative arc is the inner turmoil of a black woman who has been cheated on, and this stretch focuses on her righteous fury (sidenote: there’s more than enough evidence to say this is a Thing That Happened between Beyonce and Jay Z, but there aren’t enough details to go beyond, er, reasonable doubt. I’d argue that Lemonade‘s emotional trajectory is nuanced enough that the reality of the situation is irrelevant, but believe as you will). “Hold Up” soundtracks learning of the affair with breezy dancehall that includes interpolations of “Maps” by Yeah Yeah Yeahs and “Turn My Swag On” as Beyonce processes everything from being hurt (“I’m not too perfect/To ever feel this worthless”) to wrath (“I don’t wanna lose my pride, but I’mma fuck me up a bitch”). She’s going slightly mad here, but it’s more a byproduct of shock and disorientation. Yet the music is catchy enough that it already feels perfect for the upcoming summer.

The rage snaps into focus on the explosive “Don’t Hurt Yourself.” The whole thing is fire-breathing southern rocker, complete with Jack White on a simmering hook and a sample of those glorious “When the Levee Breaks” drums, but the part I keep coming back to is around 2:46 where Beyonce outright howls “Hey baby, who THE FUCK DO YOU THINK I IS?!. It’s one of the most repeatable songs o Lemonade from the start to that final threat of “You try this shit again, you gon lose your wife.” But for me, the “listen for 20 minutes on repeat” number right now is next track “Sorry.” “Sorry” is the album’s first emotional pivot: the song is still covered in “fuck that guy” sentiments (or to use its own language, “Suck my balls, boss!”), but the white-hot anger has dissipated, leaving a defiant but emotionally frayed protagonist whose crest falls as the song continues. And “Sorry” is just so damn beautiful as a pop song, boasting a great melody among reverberating synth hooks and a skittering drum machine at the sad-eyed cross-section of R&B and electro-pop. It’s one of my favorite songs of the year.

From “6 Inch” onward, Lemonade’s focus shifts inward. “6 Inch” on its face is about a stripper killing it in six-inch heels, but is lyrically much more of a celebration of her work ethic and the tons of money she’s making than a “Partition”-style sex jam despite the pair’s shared deep bass and smoky textures. In the context of an album about the psychological and emotional consequences of being cheated on, this send-up of women’s power can be seen as a reaffirmation of self-worth, something alluded to in the song’s fantastic bridge that drives home just how hard she’s grinding (other sidenote: Beyonce put famed horndog The Weeknd on her “it’s about strippers but not really” track that also at times sounds like Jay Z’s bro Kanye West’s most debauched song–whee, subtext). That internal focus stays on dusty cut “Daddy Lessons,” and even when she addresses her estranged partner on the spacey “Love Drought” and piano heartbreaker “Sandcastles,” you never hear anything about him, just her reaching out.

This stretch from “Daddy Lesson” to “Forward” is Lemonade at its lowest energy, but even here it’d be hard to find something to cut. “Love Drought” is an unhurried, spacey number that should feel like filler, but the production and the hook are memorable enough that it could be a single. “Sandcastles” doesn’t have any tricks to its lone verse, but it’s Beyonce’s chance to just sing the shit out of a song like it’s the last thing she’s pleading during an argument. The James Blake featuring “Forward” is fine enough, mostly as a connective tissue between Lemonade’s 2nd and 3rd acts. If anything could get cut here, it’s probably “Daddy Lessons:” I understand its place thematically, and if anything, it’s proof that Beyonce can do something with twangy acoustics and Texan jazz, but it’s just not engaging as a listen.

Lemonade’s ending is flatout stacked. “Freedom” is Beyonce at her most explicitly universal, an anthem championing the resiliency of black women loaded with baptismal and protest-inspired imagery, qualities strengthened by the marriage of gospel organ and martial drums. It’s an immensely powerful song that makes full use of Beyonce’s battering ram voice, underlines her support of Black Lives Matter, and has a great supporting verse from Kendrick Lamar. The ending quote (“I had my ups and downs, but I always found the inner strength to pull myself up. I was served lemons, but I made lemonade”) from Jay Z’s grandmother isn’t just the album’s title drop, but its thesis. The sunny “All Night” is a reconciliation for an album’s worth of wrongdoings, and while something that sounds this joyous could seem cheap or unearned after an album of hurt, I think it works because Beyonce is the active party here: check how the lyrics are about her choices, and there’s even a line about giving him time to make sure she can trust him again. On its own, “All Night” is a very good ballad, but in context, it’s near radical.

“Formation” is entirely different in Lemonade’s context, as well. When we first heard it in February, it was a black as fuck, vaguely trap banger with Beyonce in Flawless Queen Bey mode. But there’s a new power in rewarding her man with Red Lobster after good sex after seeing how much damage was done to their relationship, and more desperation in acting possessive of him, as well. And after an album proclaiming self-love for black women, calling women into formation and supporting their endeavors feels more like a rally cry than #branding. One thing unchanged is that “Formation” still sounds like Beyonce at her most superhuman, but now, there’s an emphasis on her humanity. Lemonade isn’t just a great album, but a reminder that before Beyonce was Beyonce, she was a black woman, and she’ll never leave them behind.

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