Charles Hughes writes:

“Neo-soul” never quite lived up to its promise.  During the heyday of the R&B sub-genre, let’s say 1997 to 2001, the emergence of artists like Jill Scott, Erykah Badu, and Musiq Soulchild seemed to signal a return to—or at least an emphasis on—the sounds, themes and energy of soul culture. This was very exciting for those of us who, though loving much of 1990s R&B and hip-hop, craved soul’s deep-water intensity, and longed to hear some new voices enter the conversation. Although some of “neo-soul’s” achievements were notable, both artistically and commercially, the style ran out of gas shockingly quickly, bound by the surprising rigidity of a “conscious” outlook and disappointingly welded to a relatively uninteresting roster of musical touches.

There were exceptions of course, but a whole slew of great debut albums (Jill, Musiq, Bilal, India.Arie, Maxwell, etc.) gave way to increasingly diminishing artistic returns, and a waning of “neo-soul’s” already narrow cultural niche.  Something else happened along the way too, of course.  As many folks—some associated with this blog—have pointed out, soul experienced its own recent resurgence in American popular music over the last couple years, quite independent of the overt evangelism that made “neo-soul” artists so simultaneously comforting and, frankly, rather boring.

Just when I was ready to give up the ghost on “neo-soul” for good, Angie Stone decided to release the best single of her career, and one of the best R&B cuts of the past few years.  The premiere cut from Stone’s upcoming album, The Art Of Love And War, “Baby” combines the gravity and technique of neo-soul with the energy and enthusiasm of mainstream R&B and hip-hop, an accomplishment that I thought was impossible. This synthesis fits Stone perfectly: She began her career as a rhyme-dropping force in hip-hop’s first wave, a member of all-female group Sequence, whose mighty single “Funk You Up” remains evergreen. Moving into a solo career, Stone became one of the most acclaimed “neo-soul” artists, releasing a series of albums which—though not enjoying significant commercial success—helped define the sub-genre’s mix of retro musical textures and uplifting lyrical material. For example, her biggest hit, “Brotha,” a graceful love letter to African-American men, sounded a twenty-first century echo to Nina Simone, Aretha Franklin and other soul sisters.  (She was also linked, musically and romantically, to D’Angelo, perhaps the one artist who most effectively bridged “mainstream” and “neo-soul” sub-genres, before entering a multi-year hiatus that persists to this day.)

Still, on her last couple efforts, Angie Stone—like most of her stylistic contemporaries—started to sound like she was singing in circles, re-treading the same ground which, though valuable, sounded less and less interesting as an increasing swath of R&B and hip-hop acts reintegrated soul legacies into their records, which were usually much bigger, and often much better, than those produced by consciously “neo-soul” folks.

“Baby” is a fully realized masterwork, a smooth-tip slow-jam that intoxicates the ears with warm rhythms and infectious hooks. Although Stone’s never had the most powerful voice, this tune becomes something of a vocal tour-de-force, her restrained alto caressing the melody’s rolling curves.  Lyrically, it’s a classic admonition for Angie’s former love (and, by extension, her brothers in the hip-hop generation) not to get above his raising, forgetting his roots in favor of flash, dazzle and high-saddidy hype. Now, this kind of inter-gender debate goes as far back as there’s been artistic expression, but the specific conversation in Black pop traces the wonderful moment in the early 1990s when “R&B” and “hip-hop” decided that maybe they could be friends after all. Provoked most obviously by hip-hop-soul giants like Mary J. Blige and R. Kelly, but with significant help from the rise of the Dirty South, the (often false) schisms that pitted men-versus-women, gay-versus-straight, old-versus-new, light-versus-dark and bougie-versus-streets became rich fodder for deep-blue meditations on how the beloved community in the warm core of soul music’s supernova could be rebuilt, and even strengthened. 

It is in this spirit Stone crafts her “Baby” critique, dropping the hardest hip-hop imagery (“I was your ride-or-die”) in the same voice that she uses to sweetly moan the purest strain of soul’s romantic, existential melancholy.  As in the work of Mary J. Blige, whose significance seems to grow by the day, Stone blends strength and vulnerability into a seamless mix of spiritual blues: Stone’s keepin’ it real, no doubt, but she’s also keepin’ on keepin’ on, and she seems ready to keep on tryin’ ‘til she reaches the higher ground.

Now, the best “neo-soul” always aimed to (re-)build these bridges, but the music has rarely been as compelling as the gentle sway of “Baby”s Isley-esque textures.  Insistent rhythm and sweeping, Philly Sound-esque orchestrations give Stone’s message necessary support, and protects the tune from becoming either too sleepy or too preachy, two of “neo-soul’s” major flaws. As seductive as it is reflective, this is surely grown-folks music, but it’s got plenty of young-folks passion simmering inside the grooves.

Grown folks are in the house, too.  On “Baby,” Ms. Stone gets the assistance of Betty Wright, one of the few soul legends who hasn’t enjoyed the trumpeted “comebacks” of many of her contemporaries.  Despite this, Ms. Wright has arguably remained more connected to current music than her counterparts: She mentored Joss Stone, she’s sung back-up on any number of hits, and the assertive, funky tracks she cut in her Miami heyday have long served as a popular source of samples. On “Baby,” Wright’s influence on her younger sisters becomes even more obvious: Not only does Angie shout-out Betty’s participation with an affectionate introduction, but, when Wright starts singing, her near-identical similarity to Stone’s vocal style is stunning.  But this is not mere mimicry: The one thing that distinguishes Betty from Angie is the maturity of her voice, and the wizened grace of Betty Wright’s verses adds an extra weight to the song’s message of commitment and memory.  The circle is unbroken.

Speaking of circles, “Baby”—and the upcoming Angie Stone album on which it appears—is the first major release from the re-launched Stax Records imprint.  I’ve got highly mixed emotions about the “new” Stax: while I’m overjoyed that so much of the label’s legendary output is getting the full, spiffed-up re-release treatment. But while any reintroduction of names like William Bell, Mable John and The Bar-Kays into the national consciousness is an unequivocally good thing, I can’t shake the suspicion that the new label is merely a mostly-empty attempt to attach old credibility to new talent, and the artists already signed to the twenty-first century Stax (Soulive, Lalah Hathaway) have a long way to go from their previous output if they want to make the imprint mean anything.  (I’m disappointed that the rumors about Memphian, and Stax fan, Justin Timberlake spearheading the new label have proven untrue.) 

But, much in the same way as Angie Stone’s buttery blues cuts through the static, I can feel my skepticism melting away as I give “Baby” another in the long series of spins that it’s earned since I first heard it.  While I’m not ready to believe the hype just yet, I’m incredibly encouraged by the fact that Stax’s “rebirth” comes attached to a single this memorable.  If everything, or even some of the stuff, released under the Stax name sounds like “Baby,” then everything might just work out fine.  That sweet soul music…

Angie Stone featuring Betty Wright “Baby” from the forthcoming The Art of Love and War (Stax, 2007)

This entry was posted on Tuesday, September 11th, 2007 at 1:38 pm and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.