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| Jagjaguwar | discogs.com |
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In the winter of 2006, Justin Vernon retreated to the chilly wilderness of rural Wisconsin. Fed up with his life, he left behind taxes and exes and glandular fever, replacing them with beard and flannel and guitar.
The pristine beauty of the American continent is a well-worn muse for good reason. The isolation that inspired Vernon's first two albums of delicate folk music also compelled countless others to craft, to compose, to create.
Ten years and two Grammys later, his hotly anticipated third album has arrived. 22, a Million retains an impression of the charming fireside Americana Vernon so adroitly pens.
But a footprint does not look like a boot. This album is something new, something different, something glorious.
Dirges and hymns alike swirl and shimmer, teeming with with new ideas and philosophies. Fractured strings and supple saxophones hover and buzz. A tightly focused chorus of overdubbed Vernons give the impression that the man has refracted himself through some strange frosty prism. An icy rainbow of emotional clarity has finally displayed itself in the midwinter sky.
Of particular interest are the track titles that plumb the darkest and most obnoxious depths of the Unicode palette. I do not condescend to judge this particular artistic decision from an orthographic standpoint — indeed their disjunctive nature reflects and underlines the content that they label — nor do I deign to request that in order to assuage the compulsive chatterings of my inner grammar goblins that they be changed. That said, as curator and sole patron of my own iTunes library and also of my sanity I have chosen to edit the track titles down to a facsimile of legible English, for my own private use. Just thank a deity of your choice Vernon chose not to venture into emoji territory.
A single factor blocked 22, a Million from ascending to number one on the Australian and American charts; namely, the concurrent release of Solange's A Seat at the Table to widespread critical acclaim, and to my tepid assessment. Unlike the explosive, skyscraping pop stylings of her sister, the flawless goddess Beyoncé, she embodies a chiller R&B aesthetic that utterly fails to impress me. It is all very well for Solange to write moving, dynamic poetry, but it is tragically squandered when set to plodding, monotonous glurge. She does not emote. She conveys zero sense of enthusiasm, passionlessly sauntering past potentially riveting subject matter.
This criticism may be applied more generally to many performers of R&B and rap. When the actual music is unsupportive of the lyrics, half of the listening experience is neglected. It almost doesn't matter how brilliant the wordplay or how trenchant the observations. Presentation is key. Substance without complementary style is dry. Bland. Unengaging.
If you look closely at 22, a Million (and I urge you to do so), you can make out the silhouette of the dappled Americana from earlier in Justin Vernon's prestigious career. Endowed with an expansive new palette, this album unquestionably ranks among the most innovative and engaging of the year.