Jamie Lidell: Jamie Lidell

Two tracks into Jamie Lidell, it sounds like player’s finished. Cooked. A-Rod. Last we heard, the Brit-soul radical fell on black days, moping out of the uneven Compass with an uncanny take on the “singing’s such an eff-ing chore” bemoanery of solo Chris Cornell. Scrubbed of that unfortunate dip into post-grunge, Jamie Lidell comes out New Jack Swinging, the one-two of “I’m Selfish” and “Big Love” throwing down… I don’t even know, whatever it is one throws down nowadays to incite a serious dance-off. I’m not so sure Jamie Lidell knows either, flexing to show he still belongs in the game while ignoring the hard truth that certain breeds of aerobic bump and grind have always been better left to Boyz before they become Men. Nineteenish Bobby Brown, the New Jack prototype: dance-cut shoulders, crotch at a full procreative thrust and the type of “I’m the shit” leer that tends to get wiped right the fuck off your face by 25. Thirty, tops.
Now pushing 40, Lidell brings the very straight, very workmanlike funk on “I’m Selfish” and “Big Love”—lunchpail R&B pluggers that nod to New Edition, Cameo and the First Avenue heroics of The Time and Revolution-era Prince, striving for the same stop-on-a-dime shwerve Lidell nailed on Multiply’s “When I Come Back Around.” But even at his torrid peak, Lidell refused to go through the paces of a standard funk workout, racking “When I Come Back Around” with underwater loops, self-aware phrases, Pong-blips and mid-song intermezzos of chopped vocals and keyboard noodling. Multiply remembered to keep at least one forward-looking eye both musically and personally: the sex-hyped dancefloor panther rarely ages gracefully. By their mid-twenties, Morris Day and Larry Blackmon were already clowning on the ridiculous flipside of mammalian mating rituals, going way over-the-top with personal valets and Day-Glo codpieces to show you shouldn’t take their act too seriously—at least until you caught them butt naked with your girl (or boy, whatever). Too cerebral and too restless to strap his tracks to a big dumb anchor—like the slapcrack drum of Brown’s “My Prerogative” or the fat handclap of The Time’s “Jungle Love”—Lidell’s version of New Jack shirks the hormonal low end and gets caught flat-footed.