Kendrick Lamar's 'Damn.' Embraces the Complexity and Talent of the Man Behind It

Perhaps the most cinematic and high-concept rapper in the world right now, for Kendrick Lamar to release a record nearly free of skits, interludes, or interviews with deceased rappers seemed impossible after two major label albums that redefined the limits of what’s expected and acceptable for a mainstream rap record to feel and sound like. While the feature-length follow up to modern classic To Pimp a Butterfly begins with a spoken word track detailing the rapper’s supposed death, Damn. feels mostly like other rap records released in the past few years in terms of thematic material, structure and style. What makes the album special is it just happens to be one of the most talented, interesting and considered rappers in the world making it.

Much was made of the influence of the history of black music on To Pimp a Butterfly as that album was defined by Thundercat’s six-string bass and Robert Glasper’s keys as much as Kendrick's world-class lyricism, but Damn.’s first full-length track “DNA.” doesn’t veer too far from his Los Angeles roots, as producer Mike Will Made It puts on his best G funk impression with one of the albums most inspired beats. That track to some extent misleads the listener of what to expect from the rest of the record. Many of the album’s tracks are more muted than “DNA.," as it and lead single “HUMBLE” create some moments of tremendous energy and force.

The inclusion of a red-hot producer like Mike Will Made It is telling of Damn.’s sonic touchstones. Producers of the highest class are everywhere on this record, as TBAB’s Terrence Martin returns as well as Adele producer Greg Kurstin both supplement familiar faces like longtime collaborator Sounwave. Damn. uses an fusion of styles familiar to Kendrick Lamar already while exploring the world of rap trends. Given the album’s preoccupation with Lamar proving his prowess over others in the rap world, Kendrick’s melodic bars on the hooky and effective “LOVE.” seem a direct challenge to others doing a similar thing (read: Drake) to step their game up. On a track like “LOVE.," which wears its melodicism and sweet simplicity on its sleeve, Damn. deserves credit for embracing pop structure and simplicity without sacrificing Lamar’s core. A brief breezy “YAH.” fits incredibly well in the context of the album, as the pop moments are spread out well enough that they never feel like grabs for radio attention.

In other places, the album would have perhaps done better avoiding embracing modern trends that don’t suit Kendrick’s lyricism and storytelling abilities particularly well. Monster single “HUMBLE.” seems to ape sounds and styles present in the south. Considering Kendrick’s strength as a storyteller and songwriter, the simple brag-rap and repetitive flow rob us a lot of what makes Kendrick unique. Considering “HUMBLE.” was the lead single from this album, it’s a pretty strong step down from a “King Kunta," “Alright,” or “Swimming Pools."

The album doesn’t entirely sound like a pop-rap record, as some of Kendrick’s stylistic touchstones and experimental tendencies leak into Damn., producing again stunning results. Thundercat’s bass returns on “Feel” as Kendrick creates some of his considered and well-constructed verses in years, mostly abandoning storytelling for a nonlinear, near stream-of-conscious collection of musings on faith, family, and fame.

The one-two punch of the playful accessibility of “LOVE.” and the dense, hard-edged “XXX.” is telling of the album’s deliberate structure. The schizophrenic back and forth between calm and ferocity, tension and release, point to an artist deeply concerned the full-length listening experience. Even though the album isn’t broken up with interludes featuring Kendrick's father demanding Dominos pizza, the album’s structure lends itself well to its thematic considerations. The staggering and complex “XXX.” follows “LOVE.,” featuring three distinct sections that showcase some of Kendrick's most powerful lyricism (Kendrick has a remarkable ability to make frequently revisited topics feel fresh at every mention), and some of Damn.’s most ambitious production. The kinetic siren-fueled second section contrasted with the glum, Bono-sung third section is one of Damn.’s finest moments.

Damn. will most likely be remembered as Kendrick’s most spiritual album. Biblical references pepper his musings on success and recognition, and one of the few spoken-word moments is from his cousin Carl musing on God, the Israelites and the plights and struggles of Black America. Along with those religious themes, the tension between spiritual humility and rap excess worms its way into the album in interesting and fresh ways. The modestly produced “PRIDE.” precedes the audacious and swaggering “HUMBLE." While none of this is necessarily new ground for the artist or the genre, because Kendrick is such a clever lyricist, and the songs are either interesting or plain fun, the album never feels repetitive. Considering many of the big picture lyrical themes are present across Kendrick’s discography, Damn. manages to engage to a remarkable degree.

One could consider Damn. as a simpler foil to Kendrick's two major label full-length gems, though a closer listen and examination of the artistry at hand should keep even the most demanding listener appeased with an artist growing to occupy a unique space of accessibility and experimentation, ambition and pop satisfaction. While it doesn’t always reach the heights of the TBAP tracks like “Wesley’s Theory” or “Mortal Man," Damn. is at its best a breathtaking pop-rap record never content with one theme or idea, embracing instead the complexity and talent of the man behind it.

Father John Misty Writes Civilization's Obituary with 'Pure Comedy'

There will be no casual audience for Father John Misty’s latest studio album Pure Comedy. Any time appropriate for listening to the album will not be spontaneous, brief, or passive. The headiness associated with any Father John Misty release is multiplied here by an unverifiable amount of times over and any recommendation of Pure Comedy for listening should be accompanied by an obligatory warning: this album is not a comforting experience. It would be nice to have the romantic jest and the lush sounds of I Love You, Honeybear (Sub Pop, 2015) rehashed as a therapeutic remedy to 2016. But that is not what we need and that is not what Father John Misty is interested in. As we toil with the consequences of an election year gone awry and ready ourselves for the consequences of upcoming developments, how can we approach art, life, or anything with leisure?

On Pure Comedy, Father John Misty (née Josh Tillman) tackles everything between political antichrists, the digital human experience, heavy-handed religiosity, and warring ideologies. The album is simultaneously a self-interrogation and an interrogation of the broader public’s role in enabling the current state of the union. But the questions that Tillman dares to ask are amorphously oblique and daunting. “Has commentary been more lucid than anybody else?” the protagonist asks on single “Ballad of the Dying Man.” Tillman’s choice of subject matter is certainly ambitious, but it is appropriate and well-deserved for him to take on. He dares to confront the most difficult questions looming over the nation, forgoing an altruistic or omnipotent approach for one that is genuinely vulnerable, concerned, and ultimately limited by his humanity.

Tillman’s signature backhanded humor is almost exclusively sarcastic on Pure Comedy, in contrast to I Love You, Honeybear’s facetious moments. Pure Comedy focuses a critical lens on modern society’s cultural practice, socio-political choices, and value set. “Bedding Taylor Swift / Every night inside the Oculus Rift / After mister and the missus finish dinner and the dishes” goes the opening lines to “Total Entertainment Forever.” Tillman’s criticisms are unsparing and pessimistic, a fitting match to the balladic tone of the album’s instrumentals. Melancholic pianos form the foundations of nearly every song on Pure Comedy, achieving a quality comparable to any Carole King-James Taylor collaboration on “Ballad of the Dying Man” and a Billie Joel theatricality on “Total Entertainment Forever.”

The album becomes a manifesto at its longest and most epic moments. “Leaving LA” and “So I’m Growing Old on Magic Mountain” clock in at 14 and 10 minutes respectively. The songs take listeners on a real-time tour of Tillman’s disgruntled headspace as he commutes from his home to the highway and convey the unsatisfactory and fleeting experiences of life in Los Angeles. In these songs, listeners will find themselves introspectively protracted. They are the negative spaces to an album densely packed with lyrics that offer more questions than answers concerning humanity's current condition, but not for a lack of trying to ascertain resolution. 

Through Pure Comedy's satire, Tillman does his best to offer solutions to the world’s problems, but he does not pretend to know the answers to all of them. He has no qualms about identifying societal shortcomings and challenging listeners to question whether or not they have been complicit with the regression of society’s development. He laments the ways in which our aspirations have incurred woeful externalities, telling Zane Lowe “When the internet came out it was like, this is the truest form of democracy that human beings have ever invented, this is gonna be the utopia. And you fast forward and it’s pornography.” Pure Comedy is a sobering experience and a memorandum outlining the faults in our current condition as a society and species. For some, this album will reek of an artist taking himself too seriously, but this is a gravitas that deserves applause. When was the last time you put yourself on the line by voicing your complaints? Did you try to solve them afterwards too?

San Fermin's 'Belong' is Chamber Pop Excellence

As far as bands are concerned, San Fermin is arguably one of the most unintentionally musical projects on the active circuit. If you’re unfamiliar with the group (perhaps “collective” is a better term) San Fermin, you may find your subconscious asking “well, why are they famous?” If such is the case, I’ll bury the lede.

San Fermin is the vehicle for auteur composer Ellis Ludwig-Leone (an exceptional composer name, by the way) to get his proverbial chamber pop “rocks” off. While has Ludwig-Leone handled most to all of the composition and songwriting for San Fermin’s three LP releases, the recording process as a whole is by committee.

Vocalists Charlene Kaye and Allen Tate provide melodies and additional lyrical input, while John Brandon, Stephen Chen, Tyler McDiarmid, Rebekah Durham and Michael Hanf provide the grit and structure of San Fermin. Over the course of four years, San Fermin released two exceptional explorations of the baroque and chamber pop realms – San Fermin (2013) and Jackrabbit (2015) – which culminated in the production of the band’s newest full-length effort, Belong.

Between the three albums, Belong feels slightly more akin to the band's eponymous debut. The prevailing sensibilities of earnestness and simultaneous trepidation are as strong in Belong as any instance on San Fermin. Not to place Jackrabbit on the comparative backburner, but Belong serves as a current (in this instance meaning, “musically topical”) return to form.

There are classic tenants of San Fermin-dom such as visceral horn sections composed by Ludwig-Leone and performed by John Brandon (trumpet) and Stephen Chen (saxophone). If I may have a moment of personal expression and highlight one of my favorite instances of exceptional horn-i-ness (sorry) – “Better Form” has one of the strongest baritone sax basslines I can recall (I suppose that phrase isn’t uttered all that often in modern music criticism, but I digress).

Led by Allen Tate’s own baritone timbre, “Better Form” struts around like a modern wistful club anthem, but Ludwig-Leone’s brilliance places horns and strings where the familiar womps of a Deadmau5 or Flume might place some bright shimmery electronica. The song ebbs and flows with club sensibilities – drops, dramatic musical breaks – but maintains that strong baroque methodology San Fermin has nestled itself into. The song itself is one giant crescendo into the album’s second third, and by far and away one of it most dynamic.

Speaking of dynamism, such a descriptor is necessary when referencing any and all songs of which feature both vocalists Allen Tate and Charlene Kaye performing in unison. While both have their exceptional merits – Kaye being more airy and affirmative, Tate serving as the more despondent and doleful narrator – their “duets” offer up the purest sense of San Fermin. Title track “Belong” serves as an excellent example – Tate leads the song in his historically crestfallen croon, but Kaye and violinist Rebekah Durham provide a ray of light that veils Tate’s eventual growth into contentment.

While there may be no obvious stalwart track like “Sonsick” (off of San Fermin) or saccharine sweet single like “Emily” (off Jackrabbit), Belong as a whole stands to wind up being the most complete record in San Fermin’s early discography. Songs like “Dead” feel unique to current purviews amongst the new-age bourgeoisies and their individual (and potentially dwindling) freedoms as Kaye caterwauls in front of a frenzied composition only Ludwig-Leone could conceive.

Belong itself is a bit of a marvel, considering the extensive songlisting of San Fermin’s three record discography. Ludwig-Leone has composed 55 songs in the past four years. Mind you, that was composed, not “wrote.” The complex and concerted efforts of Ludwig-Leone have always benefitted San Fermin throughout the band’s existence, but never more so than on Belong. After half a decade of touring and playing alongside each other, Belong makes it apparent that Ludwig-Leone and his associates have reached their most intimate understanding of each other, culminating in a masterful crescendo.

Future Islands' 'The Far Field' is Both Journey and Destination for a Restless Heart

When describing Future Islands their recently retired, tongue-in-cheek Twitter bio put it best: “Too noisy for new wave, too pussy for punk.” Their distinctive formula has changed relatively little over the years, and The Far Field continues to weave Gerrit Welmer’s deft synth atmospheres and William Cashion’s bass groove spine into the perfect backdrop for Samuel T. Herring’s ever-exhilarating rants and raves.

An ode to the road, restless nomadism permeates their fifth full-length, the title of which even implies a promised land beyond. You can hear the drone of a jet engine, the pound of footsteps, and the angst of a heart beating all twisted into The Far Field's melodic pulse and swirl. Over 1000 shows deep into relentless touring and coming off of the peak of their popularity, Future Islands are exhausted, but they maintain a spritely rhythm despite this.

If anything The Far Field is guilty only of leaving the rougher edges on the cutting room floor. Perhaps the awareness of now larger audiences or even weary self-preservation softened the throaty metal growls found in past songs like “Fall From Grace” (At a gig I attended post-Singles Herring joked he had just begun to see a vocal coach for the first time and that said coach was concerned), though they are of course still sprinkled throughout the live show. In fact, though you won’t find quite a “Long Flight” or “Tin Man” level climax recorded here, you get the feeling these songs were almost made as teasers for their now famous performances; You can practically feel the vein-bursting screams in “Aladdin,” visualize the sultry hip swaying in delicious slow jam “Candles,” and taste the sweat in “Cave.”

The passion and drive is still there, but the “Spirit”-esque hooks are left behind as well; Future Islands have earned your attention, now here is what they have to say. Perhaps the most vulnerable moment of The Far Field is “Through The Roses,” with Herring juxtaposing internal anxiety with the rose-colored perception of the star on a stage who is, after all, still human, though not easily so. “And you see me through the roses / Through the lights and the smoke and the screen / I’m no one better / I’m no better than you / And I’m scared,“ he reveals. Despite the chest-beating confidence he can exude and the success that it's found, you believe him.

Though “It’s not easy just being human” seems obvious, many do lose sight of the delicate humanity in entertainers, especially one whose stocky frame and soulful evocations can at times seem larger than life. There is a selfish voyeurism afforded the listener - one can marvel at Herring as he mimes ripping his own heart out or tearing a mask off his melting face, but when the lights come on you go home. For Herring and Future Islands home still remains just that, a Far Field somewhere down the line.

Restlessness electrifies this album in a way deeper than to simply say the grass is always greener. “The fear that keeps me going and going and going / Is the same fear that brings me to my knees,” Herring grinds out at The Far Field’ intensest on “Cave.” How do you deal with the paradox that your art is driven by the same pain of love that the touring artist’s lifestyle unforgivingly impedes? By using it as the fuel to carry on.

“North Star” could be read as a prequel to canon staple “Long Flight” as a weather delay keeps Herring from fulfilling a promise to be home soon, and in a record written about a sort of unrequited search for a self-actualized peace any respite is fleeting. “Oh, at last! / You’re here in my arms again / And I don’t know how long / So I won’t waste a bit,” he sings on “The Beauty of the Road.”

Still, to the casual listener, the Letterman meme viewer, much of this might be glided over. It is, after all, a pop structure built on an undeniable throb and grab. Sentiment aside, it’s just damn catchy. And though this is a record review, as is already apparent it is nearly impossible to separate the theatrical dimension of the live embodiment of these tracks from the spinning wax that seems tantalizingly lifeless by comparison.

To fully internalize The Far Field it helps to have witnessed the shocking ease with which Herring seamlessly transitions between the emotional convulsions of his stage prowl to the wide, disarming smile he flashes the second the songs end. “We’re just fucking around,” he often small talks in between, but one glimpse of the way his face contorts as he pounds the side of his head with his fist before collapsing to the ground gives you the feeling he is extremely not fucking around. Despite this, whereas most artists this deep into character are impenetrably impersonal, the down-to-earth accessibility Herring maintains throughout it all is truly a thing of beauty. The balance between tortured artist and man you could comfortably share a drink with is rarely struck with real quality, and it’s this fine line of flexible authenticity that make Future Islands’ music paradoxically familiar yet otherworldly, oscillating between primal and candor and doing both better than most bands can do even one.

This record benefits from this self-aware duality in more ways than one. “And what’s a song without you? / When every song I write is about you,“ Herring pines in single “Ran.” As he first penned a decade ago, “The Heart Grows Old,” and Herring has come to terms with much since then, avoiding hardening too much or burning out in the process. The Far Field is a matured and knowing hunger, one “ran ‘round the wailing world.”

Hamilton Leithauser + Rostam Combine Artfully on 'I Had A Dream That You Were Mine'

“I use the same voice I always have,” belts out Hamilton Leithauser in “Sick As A Dog” to an Edward Sharpe-esque choral echo. With over a decade of expertly exerting one of indie’s boldest howls it would be senseless to stop, and following his former band The Walkmen’s “extreme hiatus” starting 2014 and a solo release in the same year, he has thankfully found yet another vessel to carry them on I Had A Dream That You Were Mine.

Leithauser is at his best at his most strained, anguished, and raw, and in his pairing with newly departed Vampire Weekender Rostam Batmanglij, the Brooklyn veteran offers no shortcomings of any of his strongest qualities while Rostam does his best to mix up the backdrops to the production. Further enlisting White Rabbits percussionist Stephen Patterson, the result is deftly balanced dynamics and a surprisingly diverse combination of styles resulting in an album that somehow feels equal parts eclectic and whole.

Much of Rostam’s production, not least the Vampire Weekend-reminiscent string arrangements, gives I Had A Dream That You Were Mine the feeling of truly being composed. Whether the medium is meandering harmonica or baroque accentuation, the multi-instrumentalist blossoms in the newfound freedom of realizing a long-standing aspiration to write for a voice he spent the last 15 years admiring from the outside.

First single and opening track ”A 1000 Times" breaks right out of the gate with Leithauser's full register of glorious, pleading yowls. The potential energy is immediately palpable in the delicate opening few seconds that serve only to set the stage for a vocal main course that doesn't really let up once it starts. “Rough Going (I Won’t Let Up)” reaffirms their commitment to carrying on while looking back at doo-wop inspiration before “In A Black Out” pauses for finger-picked balladry. Though much of peak Walkmen-era Leithauser vocals are delightfully thrown against a clash of reverb and electric guitar, we have them gently laid over a bed of acoustic here, while a Rostam-procured "Step”-style choir combines to beautifully fill the space.

Banjo-nestled “Peaceful Morning” veers close to saccharine at first before finding its stride in Leithauser’s gentle coos turned cries once more, while "When The Truth Is..." is a swanky blend of bottle slide guitar, steady piano plinks, and a jarringly splendid marriage of his impassioned pipes with those of a saxophone. The latter’s ecstatic barroom brawl of a chorus is a powerful highlight of both the record and their respective careers, flawlessly punctuated with Patterson’s skittering high hat. Submerged in the locomotion of Patterson’s drums, a country twang even pokes through in “The Morning Stars,” and, past the initial confusion of a new voice being introduced just as the credits roll, “1959”’s Angel Deradoorian (Dirty Projectors) feature gives an angelic foil to Leithauser’s lead.

A damn good duo, Leithauser and Rostam are a veritable phoenix rising from indie ashes that wonderfully proves when two doors close sometimes the window that opens lets in more than enough light to fill the bar. To argue that together they’re greater than the sum of their parts would be misleading - this collaboration would have a long way to go before attempting to dethrone either of its member’s past projects - though they at no point rely on reputation to carry the record, leaving us with an album that deserves far more than a footnote when the curtain falls. The dream many of us hold of a Walkmen reunion (and now even a Vampire Weekend one, to some extent) may fade with each passing night, but at least I Had A Dream That You Were Mine can be spun a 1000 times to more than fill the silence.

Witness Låpsley's Impassioned Debut 'Long Way Home'

Debuts in music can be daunting and altogether treacherous endeavors. Artist development requires a deft touch – some artists succeed and capitalize fully on their first foray (see - Courtney Barnett), others simply burn out (see - JEFF the Brotherhood), or even worse, sometimes extensive anticipation can remove a promising artist from the public consciousness altogether (see – Sampha). Nevertheless, the point of the matter in debuting an artist consists of concerted effort and at times, unadulterated luck; all that to be said, of the handful of hotly anticipated debutants (Shura, Kehlani, Conrad Sewell) in 2016, few have summited the mountain of hype coinciding with their respective debuts as gracefully as XL gem, Låpsley.

At 19, Holly Lapsley Fletcher emanates a wizened perspective in her music that feels most akin to being the secret love child of Adele and James Blake. Since 2013, under the name Låpsley, she has been putting out dreamy minimalist electro pop – Monday EP independently and Understudy EP through XL – that connects with the listener in a visceral manner that’s its almost bewildering to consider the creator’s age. Her breakout track in 2014 (and third track on her debut), “Falling Short” is an austere song filled with tasteful production and self-aware lyrics – “Its been a long time coming, but I’m falling short” – that imbues a feeling of Låpsley’s jilted perspective in regard to a relationship long gone, or considering her age, maybe recent.

Låpsley’s debut album, Long Way Home, extends the mature tones present in her EPs to fully introduce a rare occurrence amongst debuting artist – full faith that she will not fall short of expectation. Opening track “Heartless” is one of the record’s fuller tracks – the slightest of departures from the minimal approach of prior Låpsley efforts – but it only enhances Låpsley’s prospects. Rather than stick to creating analogues of tracks that garnered her early notoriety, she expands her sonic spectrum with a single track on her debut.

A former single, “Hurt Me,” follows “Heartless,” and it once again showcases Låpsley’s versatility within her musical realm. The track is effectively the album’s outright anthem – coming to grips with a relationship gone awry – with Låpsley’s voice effortlessly shifting from soft murmurs into lung filled crescendos. All the while, the production is bigger, more vibrant than the tasteful minimalism of a “Falling Short,” but all the while feels unique to Låpsley.

Two more pre-release singles follow “Hurt Me;” “Falling Short” and “Cliff.” Of the first half of the album, “Cliff” is by far and away the strongest track. It runs the gauntlet of Låpsley’s sonic spectrum – echoing backing vocals, observational lyricism, minimalist production that explodes in a Jamie xx-esque club beat. The accompanying video for “Cliff” even fits the uniform mold of Låpsley minimalism; with Låpsley standing in the snow and simple camera zooms in and out on her face.

Where “Cliff” is the all around best track on Long Way Home, subsequent “Operator (He Doesn’t Call Me)” is the most empowered. With a sample at the onset, and a disco heavy beat to follow, the track also exhibits some of Låpsley’s strongest vocal work, with bellowing “My baby doesn’t call me / So tell me shit I needed to,” that give water to the occasional Adele comparisons.

The next four offerings on Long Way Home – “Painter,” “Tell Me The Truth,” “Station,” “Love Is Blind” – are more lyrically driven tracks that explore more of Låpsley’s perspectives of love, attraction, and relationships. Granted, some tracks are centered on less than fresh concepts – “love is blind with the lights out” – but others (“Station”) reveal seasoned perspectives of a skillful written voice – “Two for the taking, you can have it all at once if it makes you sane” – that’s unafraid to speak from personal experience.

The closing fourth of Long Way Home is comprised of “Silverlake,” an all-knowing narrative journey of a jaded perspective of a relationship somehow associated with the Los Angeles neighborhood of the same name – “Beautiful now, but soon you’ll be gone / By Silverlake I left a stake in the sun.” Closer, “Seven Months,” seems to be the most offertory – “Seven months I gave myself / Every night I’d say how I had my doubt” – and rounds out as one of the most finessed tracks on the record, blending Låpsley’s familiar minimalist sound with a meandering melody. Arguably the most amorphic of tracks on Long Way Home, it offers a glimpse into the future bevy of avenues Låpsley could choose to take on LP #2.

Long Way Home is altogether a triumphant introduction to an artist whose potential exceeds that of most acts in similar points of their careers. She approaches her production with a deft touch that seamlessly engages the listener with each facet of the music. Her lyricism is strong, but at times can leave more to be desired, but that’s almost certainly because of her age. As far as debuts are concerned, Låpsley’s is arguably the best this year to date, and is undoubtedly the first of many exceptional future records to come.  

King Krule No More, Meet Archy Marshall on 'A New Place 2 Drown'

Zoo Kid, DJ JD Sports, Edgar the Beatmaker, King Krule – all pseudonyms of one Archy Ivan Marshall, who chose to spurn his most recent moniker (King Krule) in exchange for his given name on his most recent release, A New Place 2 Drown.

Before delving into Marshall’s most recent, eponymous effort, it may serve to understand the journey that culminated with ANP2D. A peculiar character, Marshall grew up in a divided working class home in Peckham, England. Marshall attests that he was subjected to “a lot of weird shit during his [childhood].” The combination of divorced parents, “weird shit,” and sleepless nights spent listening to Pixies and the Libertines eventually inspired Marshall to create these “soundscapes.” 

In 2010, Marshall revealed himself to the world as Zoo Kid, with his beguiling baritone and doom jazz guitar riffs on the track “Out Getting Ribs.” Almost immediately, Marshall was (uninspiringly) heralded as an artist far beyond his years, with additional fuel coming under his new moniker, King Krule, and a similarly titled EP in 2011. Shortly thereafter, Marshall released his first official full-length record, 6 Feet Beneath the Moon, in 2013 through XL. The album was met with critical acclaim, as well as lauded by Beyonce and Willow Smith (who covered “Easy Easy” in 2014), then Marshall (and King Krule) effectively disappeared, with the exception the occasional video here and there (“A Lizard State” in 2014).

Keeping with the disparate nature of his music, Marshall’s music and subsequent radio silence were unfamiliar, uncharted, and uncomfortable. Had early success frightened the divergent talent? Or was Marshall’s solitary and uncommunicative nature caused music media to purposefully ignore him?

All theories of Marshall’s activities and practices were ultimately laid to rest in late 2015, when Archy Marshall’s newest effort under his own name, A New Place 2 Drown was (fittingly) announced with little to no enthusiasm from Marshall himself, as well as the an accompanying media book and short film. News trickled out that not only had Marshall begun to explore new art forms, but he had done so with his brother no less, indicating that ANP2D was ultimately a collaborative effort.

In short, ANP2D is an endeavor unfamiliar to typical Archy Marshall/King Krule process – the focus is not necessarily on the music, but rather the literary companion. 208 pages long, the book features artwork, poems, and photographs curated by Marshall’s brother, Jack. Archy attests that the book “is a scrapbook of [his relationship with his brother] and how we see the world.” The film illuminates the aforementioned relationship between the two Marshalls, exploring their creative processes in a bleak slice of life, surrealist lens.

The multi media explorations in the mundane may be Marshall breaking new ground, but the 37 minutes of musical accompaniment is a continuation of King Krule. Marshall’s music has always explored the mundane and the desolate, in service of creating his previously mentioned soundscapes, which ANP2D certainly achieves. Marshall harnesses the lonesome nature of King Krule tracks past, and layers it atop the despondence that from 90’s hip hop.

ANP2D opens with “Any God of Yours,” an instrumental dirge that allows Marshall to impress his honed production growth upon the listener. The growth is a departure from 6 Feet Beneath the Moon, with Marshall altogether spurning the doom jazz/stark-hop sound of Krule for more pure hip-hop. Tracks like “Swell” and “Arise Dear Brother” are almost indiscernible at certain points when it comes to Marhsall’s lyrical presentation, though the mumbled delivery only heightens the soundscape immersion.

The cleanup track “Ammi Ammi” is a melodramatic expression of Marshall’s life in the dingy sides of town, with cool crooning from Jamie Isaac supplanting Marshall on the hooks. “Ammi Ammi” and “Buffed Sky” elevate ANP2D into more distinctive territory, giving glimmers of an overarching theme – something that was obfuscated in previous efforts.

ANP2D serves as the most direct platform of the multi-media myriad into Marshall’s personal exploration and subsequent growth over the past two years, vaguely referencing lessons learned (“Sex With Nobody”) and new production practices (the sleepy 808s on “Eye’s Drift” and “New Builds”), but at certain moments, Marshall gets lost in the soundscape mentality. Closing track “Thames Water” falls victim to the occasional cliché ("girl this place is evil") and some rather curious multi-layered vocal work, eventually segueing into an almost entirely new track. 

It would be a disservice to say that the music of ANP2D is an afterthought, though the accompanying book and short film may indicate that somewhere down the line music may take a back seat to Marshall’s artistic process. Luckily, A New Place 2 Drown offers enough of the genre bending familiarity of King Krule and the new working class grit and grind of Archy Marshall who finds beauty in the mundane, specifically the purposefully mundane work of his brother. ANP2D offers a glimpse into Marshall’s more contemporary perspective and creative outlook, which may prove to be more transcendent as Archy Marshall than King Krule could have ever been.