>As usual with Bowie, Blackstar (RCA, 2016), produced again by Tony Visconti,, is mostly image and very little about the music. The ten-minute Blackstar, that was supposed to be the centerpiece, is little more than a funereal litany a` la Doors with jazz horns that goes on five minutes too many. Bowie crooning melodramatic in Lazarus (from his Broadway musical about an alien who falls in love) or romantic in Dollar Days is either delirious and pathetic, certainly not entertaining. His tedious voice interferes with the driving jazz jam of 'Tis a Pity She Was a Whore and with the frenzied and tense Sue (a 2014 single). Even when the voice is not a distraction, the rest is hardly intriguing: I Can't Give Everything Away boasts an awful distorted guitar against syncopated beats and layers of electronic drones: not exactly genius. This is trivial "music" that any amateur could make, except that most amateurs would be ashamed to release it.
Find a single flaw with this analysis.
As usual with Bowie, Blackstar (RCA, 2016), produced again by Tony Visconti...
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this guy is hilarious i genuinely cannot believe people take him seriously
t. christgau
Kill your fucking miserable self
Explain me why these bowiefags are so mad if this review is the best review scaruffi ever made?
Not trying to say bowiefags are absolute plebs but only because they've done it for me already itt.
I don't fucking care, greentexting Scaruffi reviews and making a fucking thread out of it is the most annoying thing ever.
t.butthurt
>The word "hype" wasn't enough to describe the media assault on the sprawling 80-minute To Pimp a Butterfly (2015), another meticulously crafted album that employed legions of writers, producers and musicians (including jazz pianist Robert Glasper and jazz saxophonist Kamasi Washington). Six people wrote Wesley's Theory, including George Clinton, and four produced it, including Flying Lotus. Nine people are credited as writers for the funk-fest King Kunta, making it de facto a collage. The producers threw in more live instruments, resulting in a sound that is more revivalist than innovative, but also a sound that helps the general theatrical atmosphere. For better and for worse, The Blacker the Berry is the epitome of this emphatically pointless but fashionable avant-jazz-rap music. I begins as an olf-fashioned synth-pop hit of the 1980s before it begins to sound like a James Brown parody (with the lyrics "the number one rapper in the world" and "i love myself") accented by a jovial piano figure. The best psychodrama is possibly one of the simplest songs, the melodic funk-soul These Walls, and the best political sermon the equally straightforward funk ditty Hood Politics. But the music is secondary to the histrionics and it doesn't matter that the catchy and danceable Alright stands in opposition of the industrial beat that derails Momma, a fact that could account for at least eclecticism. This is a superficial and, ultimately, middle-of-the-road album from an artist who lacks the visceral energy of Public Enemy and Tackhead while also lacking the poetic depth of Kanye West and the musical genius of El-P. He tries to be all of them at once, but maybe he would be most credible if he were just himself: a brilliant script-writer of fictionalized real-life stories: the Christian parable How Much a Dollar Cost presents God disguised as a homeless man, and Mortal Man interviews the ghost of dead rapper 2Pac.
What's so annoying about it?
Are you so insecure other opinions hurt you?
If so you should go to reddit where you can downwote any opinion you dislike.
You forgot.
>6/10