On another he rhymes “Shibuya” with “she boo, yeah” and “see-through dress.” The production is so warm and soft and despite all the maneuvers, Smino is so understated that it sometimes sounds like he’s whisper singing brags under a velvet blanket.įor the most part, NOIR is a raunchy bedroom party album where Smino would rather put a wet towel under the hotel bathroom door than be stuck in the club.
On the same song he makes “real freaky” sound like “Rafiki” to force a Lion King reference and accomplish nothing else. Smino never explains or calls attention to them but these moments are everywhere on NOIR sometimes to the point of bogging things down with cleverness. Listen to Smino rap it once and you’ll never revert back from the upswing at the end of “10 puppies” so that it somehow rhymes with “Japanese” or the way he makes a four-syllable utterance of “champagne” feel like a graceful pirouette. “I'm flee like 10 puppies/These Japanese/I don't drink champagne/But fuck it, clack the drinks.” You could sing that sentence to yourself a million times and never arrive at the way Smino raps it. On “MERLOT” Smino and one other singer conjure up a knotty harmony like Bone Thugs-N-Harmony.Īll of those vocal tricks help Smino shape words to make them rhyme unexpectedly or to unlock new spaces inside them by folding them up into his breath.
He doubles his vocals and self-harmonizes everywhere, and sometimes he breaks a song down into a doo-wop vamp that could easily double as an audition for Boyz II Men-if D’Angelo was singing lead. He shrieks, whispers, squeaks, mumbles, and sometimes stops just a few notes from outright yodeling. His default singing voice-which he uses to rap as well-is weightless and honeyed to the point that it’s hard to tell if he’s in a falsetto. NOIR is above all an album about language: Smino throws a million different voices into the mix, sometimes all at once. Either way, Smino is working within tradition by bending his words to his will and through his Blackness. Listening to Smino’s second album NOIR led me to an essay James Baldwin wrote for The New York Times called, “If Black English Isn’t a Language, Then Tell Me, What Is?” Baldwin makes his point simply in the title but continues in the first paragraph: “Language.is meant to define the other-and, in this case, the other is refusing to be defined by a language that has never been able to recognize him.” That came to mind when I read something Smino tweeted a few weeks ago, “dnt correct my grammar hoe I spelt it dat way kuz das high say it,” which also feels a bit like an echo of a Dunbar poem.
0 kommentar(er)
