“High frequency tones for the soul,” she says, and maybe so. Telephone Man” into a smooth soul murmur, tamping down New Edition’s original hormonal pleading and digitized cheese in favor of a deep background simmer.Īlso Read Chance the Rapper, Vic Mensa Reveal Lineup for First Black Star Line Festival That ‘70s vibe carries on through wall-to-wall Fender Rhodes, muted or sparkling depending on the moment, along with Talking Book-era Stevie Wonder synth bass whomp (“U Don’t Have to Call”) and a dreamy take on the Todd Rundgren/Isley Brothers classic “Hello, It’s Me.” Badu even turns quintessential ‘80s boy-band smash “Mr. Where Drake and producer nineteen85 heard a hook with sampling potential in Timmy Thomas’ 1972 “Why Can’t We Live Together,” Badu seizes upon grander possibilities of celebrating vintage sounds, whether opening the joint with loops of now-antiquated busy signals or reveling in the tinny preset grooves of the Rhythm King drum machine that connects lucky duck Thomas with visionary Sly Stone.
But it’s way more accurate to describe the effort as simply relaxed, a relievedly brief meditation on connections and communications, drenched in a retro vibe respectful of “Hotline Bling”’s original source material. Badu scatting “hello hello,” repetitive glances back at her own nearly 20-year-old single about calling up Tyrone to help you come pick up your shit - you’d be forgiven for thinking You Caint Use My Phone a bit slight. Really, 37 minutes, 11 songs, two or maybe three of ‘em covers and/or adaptations, one of ‘em 30 seconds of Ms.
Leave it to Erykah Badu to show the fellas how it’s done with an eye for posterity, reconfiguring the tune for her specific timbre, switching up gender POV with ease, and swapping out a plodding “cell phone” for her own hopscotching “cell-u-lar dee-vice” - so classy, so jazzy.įive long years after New Amerykah Part Two, a delayed mixtape cut in-house over a week or so and centered around phone use doesn’t scan like much on paper.
Not that any of these icons offer much in the way of interpretation: where Bieber works busily embellishing a melody line Drake wisely left unadorned, Smith via Disclosure coaxes proceedings from the club into the lounge while Stevens merely raises a teacup in sadboy solidarity. In this pop moment of 17-38 squads, Gap Band pastiches, and Queen Adele looming on her throne, how bizarre that 2015’s runaway cultural convergence should come along in the guise of an eternally self-pitying Drake and his even-keeled “Hotline Bling.” And yet that unassuming single, in which our Drizzy seems seriously bummed to learn an old flame is showing more skin than usual out on the avenue, has spawned an unlikely late-season scramble towards masscult consumption, Justin Bieber and Sam Smith jostling elbows with Sufjan Stevens for coverage.
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