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D'Angelo in 1995

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I Met Her in Philly: D'Angelo's 'Brown Sugar' Turns 25

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Like Marvin Gaye and so many '70s heroes before him, D'Angelo imbued easy listening with urgency on his studio debut
Dan Weiss
GRAMMYs
Jul 9, 2020 - 9:28 am

It's hard to believe there was a time when R&B wasn't exactly described as "loose," which is a very subjective term. But if you can imagine, like most '80s music, R&B had become rather "tight," and became nearly claustrophobically so as New Jack Swing was introduced, with the likes of Janet Jackson and Bobby Brown riding steely new rhythms, vocalizing on beat, making entire tics out of their voices' response to the rhythm. Michael Jackson made entire songs, entire languages out of those tics. This stuff wasn't grooveless in the slightest. But it was highly choreographed, syncopated, squeezed into form-fitting outfits for mechanistic dance routines and informed by hip-hop beats, house, electro-via-Kraftwerk, all kinds of "hard" structures that forced traditional singers to constrict and contort their presences to fit into the spaces between all this busy, futuristic new audio innovation. So if you're wondering where neo-soul came from, that’s your ground zero.

Of course, there was quiet storm too, but unlike the 2010s, which found New Age and other soft, conservative genres being reevaluated as something extraordinary, the respected likes of Luther Vandross et al. were not seen as revolutionary like Public Enemy or Prince in the 1980s. What Michael "D'Angelo" Archer did a quarter-century ago was simple enough—like Marvin Gaye and so many '70s heroes before him, he imbued easy listening with urgency. Not that subtlety was about to overpower the steamrolling megapopularity of grunge or gangsta rap in 1995. But D'Angelo’s debut album Brown Sugar was vital and newsworthy enough that it arguably birthed the whole damn neo-soul movement, a year before Maxwell’s Urban Hang Suite, two years before Erykah Badu’s Baduizm, five before Jill Scott's Who Is Jill Scott?, and you can hear more of it today in Noname and Solange and Keiyaa and countless other contemporaries more than most music turning 25 this year.

That's the backstory, really. The legendary follow-up Voodoo gets all the attention, and rightfully so, but Brown Sugar gets somewhat overshadowed by default, for not having an epic wait like its five-year follow-up or 2016's Black Messiah, the critics' poll-annihilating mirage which materialized 14 years after that. But besides nabbing D'Angelo four GRAMMY noms at the time and almost singlehandedly opening the doors for a genre, it’s just a flawless album.

Which is not be taken for granted in any era, but especially not the '90s, a great decade for R&B singles, and not-exactly-canonized efforts from its heaviest hitters: Boyz II Men, Mariah Carey, maybe TLC. Only Mary J. Blige and Prince were routinely making strong top-to-bottom albums at the time that could be slotted as soul. But they had so much hip-hop and other things in the mix, whereas D’Angelo was something of a purist. Anything new about Brown Sugar was old. Well, except for "Cruisin'," which to this day could very well still be his finest moment.

Ever heard of grooves? Not exactly a new idea. But when we talk about "loose," we talk about weed freeing oxygen to the brain, intimacy-inspired serotonin, an extreme level of comfort from a debut artist in the astoundingly calming, funky properties of his not-really-songs, and the deeply layered vocal shapes he laid over them without any particular dissonance or chaos. The Geto Boys-worthy drum loop of a vamp like "Jonz in My Bonz" was all that really tethered it to the Earth, the rest sounded like three or four Ds improvising at once, a crooner with more than one head, which in this genre has been a reality in more than a few instances. Brown Sugar is still easy listening, not that any D'Angelo is even close to difficult. But like Fela Kuti, it's simultaneously sprawling and simple-sounding; except for the intricately jazzy "Smooth" and its attendant piano, you don’t come away from these songs being convinced that they existed before the recording session.

The hooks are just mantras: "I want some of your brown sugar," "Why are you sleeping with my woman," "Look at you, you’re so smooth." They get stuck in your head without trying too hard, and they don’t sound forethought. D'Angelo is an expert arranger, player and definitely singer. But as a songwriter, you really just hear his talent molding and drawing these ideas out before your ears. And yet the avoidance of waste is shocking: just ten songs, no skits, most hovering around the extraordinary heights of the six-and-half-minute "Cruisin'" and the bluesy, bewildered cheating reveal "Shit, Damn, Motherf**ker." Voodoo is widely acknowledged as the best R&B album of the 2000s, but there’s no reason not to award the same consideration to its naturalistic, unhurried predecessor for its respective decade. He’s one of those icons like Kurt Cobain who makes it sound so easy when dozens of not-quites prove it certainly isn't. But listening rarely gets easier than Brown Sugar.

On 'Things Fall Apart,' The Roots Deepened Hip-Hop

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Erykah Badu in 2000

Erykah Badu in 2000

Photo: Anthony Barboza/Getty Images

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Didn't Cha Know?: 20 Years of Erykah Badu's 'Mama's Gun'

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Released in November 2000, the Queen of Neo-Soul's GRAMMY-nominated sophomore album was a huge step forward for her as a creator and as a leading voice within the genre
Jordan Blum
GRAMMYs
Nov 21, 2020 - 2:51 pm

Erykah Badu was a force to be reckoned with throughout the late '90s and early 2000s. Her 1997 debut album, Baduizm, which was directly influenced by Brandy's self-titled first record, was immensely confident, enjoyable and successful. Its fusion of vintage and modernized styles—R&B, soul, jazz, hip-hop and traditional African music—earned Badu comparisons to Billie Holiday, Mary J. Blige, Lauryn Hill, Chaka Khan, Maxwell and Stevie Wonder. Paired with the equally efficacious Live later that year, Baduizm instantly earned the Texas singer-songwriter recognition as one of the leading forces in neo-soul.

Clearly, hopes were high for her next move; even so, her follow-up in 2000, Mama's Gun, was decidedly sleeker, edgier and more diverse, allowing Badu to fully come into her own and play a larger role in the mainstream impact of the subgenre. On Mama's Gun, she found her tangibly idiosyncratic path. Today, the album's blueprint can be heard in the sound of countless protégés: Childish Gambino, Amy Winehouse, John Legend, Janelle Monáe and Raheem DeVaughn, to name a few. That she'd eventually lean on increasingly raw, minimalist and experimental avenues on her later albums, Worldwide Underground and the two-part New Amerykah series, makes Mama's Gun that much more special.

Badu began recording Mama's Gun, her first album on Motown Records, in 1998—at Jimi Hendrix's famed Electric Lady Studios—shortly after giving birth to her first child, Seven, who she had with OutKast's André "3000" Benjamin. Along the way, she also worked with The Roots' drummer/co-frontman, Questlove, and joined his collective, The Soulquarians, a rotating group of collaborative Black musicians that also featured James Poyser, Pino Palladino, Mos Def, Q-Tip, Common and many other eminent artists. Naturally, some of them helped create Mama's Gun—as producers, players or both—alongside over a dozen other instrumentalists. It's no wonder, then, why the album features such a luscious, retro and inventive blend of funk, jazz and soul tapestries.

Lyrically, Mama's Gun is rightly considered more accessible and overtly autobiographical than Baduizm; its strong sense of poise explores personal hardships, such as her breakup with Benjamin, self-doubt and social issues, like the killing of Amadou Diallo ("A.D. 2000"). All the while, the record's mixture of condemnation and celebration keeps it resonant and fun. Much like how early Tori Amos and Ben Folds albums could be seen as approaching similar sentiments and styles from oppositely gendered perspectives, Mama's Gun has been viewed as the female counterpart to frequent collaborator D'Angelo's Voodoo, which released almost a year prior. Granted, such comparisons are almost always a bit reductive and devaluing, but there's certainly enough shared DNA between them.

Read: I Met Her in Philly: D'Angelo's 'Brown Sugar' Turns 25

Mama's Gun produced many accolades. Lead single "Bag Lady" became her first charting track on the Billboard Hot 100. The track was also nominated for Best Female R&B Vocal Performance and Best R&B Song at the 2001 GRAMMYS; "Didn't Cha Know?," the album's follow-up single, was also nominated for the latter award one year later. Mama's Gun itself peaked at No. 11 on the Billboard 200 and was certified platinum by the RIAA.

Likewise, press reviews of the album were overwhelmingly favorable—if more mixed than those for Baduizm—with The Guardian, Pitchfork, Rolling Stone and The Village Voice being among the most complimentary. Unsurprisingly, it appeared on several major "Best Of" year-end lists, too. While there were also some naysayers, such as Q and Entertainment Weekly, no publication was outright dismissive of Mama's Gun. Naturally, this led to her feeling somewhat disappointed by its reception. Still, she felt equally encouraged by how fans reacted at concerts, latter surmising that "the work is not always for commercial success. It's also for spiritual upliftment."

Read: The Verzuz Effect: How Swizz Beatz & Timbaland's Beat Battles Showcase Music's Past, Present And Future

Two decades on, Mama's Gun remains a beacon of confessional observations and smoothly flowing stylistic changes. Opener "Penitentiary Philosophy" is an exhilarating group effort that begins cleverly with interlocking voices projecting creative and personal anxieties; from there, it explodes into a wonderfully nuanced and conceived psych/funk/soul festival beneath which Badu pushes toward unity in society and the agency of the individual. Such energies follow her onto the quirkier and more playful one-two punch of "Booty" and "Kiss Me On My Neck," as well as the multipart, multifaceted and highly ambitious closer, "Green Eyes," a breakup suite, inspired by Benjamin, whose use of horns, noirish piano, soothing percussion and sundry accentuations make it enormously poignant and seductive.

Elsewhere, the record is softer and calmer, such as with the hip and catchy "Didn't Cha Know?" and the cool-as-ice R&B composure of "My Life." Interestingly, "... & On" is the successor to Baduizm's "On & On" in form and function, with a synthesis of hip-hop, spoken word and jazz elements yielding a carefree gem of self-empowerment that evokes Stevie Wonder in its flamboyant breakdowns. His influence also shines in alternative ways on the tranquil yet sobering acoustic ballad "A.D. 2000," an evocative commentary on the ease with which Black lives are taken and then forgotten in American society. In contrast, Badu's duet with Stephen Marley, "In Love With You," is minimalist, but still uplifting.

Aside from periodic collaborations and other one-off projects, Badu has been relatively removed from the industry over the last few years. Whatever the reasons, her absence weighs heavily considering how much she accomplished beforehand. In particular, Mama's Gun was a huge step forward for her not only as a creator, but also as a leading voice within the genre. No matter which album is your favorite—they're all justifiable candidates that do things differently—it's impossible to deny what Mama's Gun did for Erykah Badu and neo-soul overall. 

Twenty years since its release, Mama's Gun is just as captivating and significant today.

These Dreams Are Forever: 10 Years Of Janelle Monáe's 'The ArchAndroid'

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No Doubt in 1996

 

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Welcome To The Tragic Kingdom: No Doubt's Masterpiece Turns 25

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The ska-pop greats' sophomore record not only featured some of the most definitive songs of its era, but its visceral lyrics and innovative genre-bending would make a significant impact on the fabrics of pop and rock music at large
Yasmine Shemesh
GRAMMYs
Oct 10, 2020 - 6:47 am

In the spring of 1995, uncertainty hung heavy in the Southern California air for No Doubt, a spirited band of misfits from the Anaheim suburbs. Their bouncy, brassy 1992 self-titled debut had been ignored and their label, Interscope Records, didn’t really know what to do with them other than pass them to producer Matthew Wilder, of "Break My Stride" fame, for guidance. Eric Stefani, who co-founded the band in 1986 with his sister, Gwen, and classmate, John Spence, was growing more disillusioned with it all every day. The main songwriter and visionary, he wasn’t much for relinquishing creative control. And for a group who found inspiration in the Jamaican ska, new wave and punk of British two-tone bands like the Selecter and Madness, the Wilder paring felt like, as Gwen told Rolling Stone in 1997, "such an invasion, at first."

No Doubt took their frustration into their garage studio on Beacon Avenue and furiously recorded a sophomore effort over a weekend on their own watch. The Beacon Street Collection captured the raw energy that made the band so popular in Orange County’s ska and punk undergrounds and peers of like-minded groups such as Sublime—but, then, Eric left the band in late 1994. No Doubt self-released the album in March the following year. It was embraced more warmly than its predecessor and proved their worth to Interscope, who greenlit a studio follow-up. But without their former captain steering the ship, No Doubt was treading new water.

Read More: Got To Keep On Movin': How Matthew Wilder's '80s Deep Cut "Break My Stride" Broke TikTok

Stefani had already been writing songs of her own, trying make sense of the end of her eight-year relationship with the band’s bassist, Tony Kanal. Kanal and guitarist Tom Dumont picked up songwriting duties along the way, too. But it would be Stefani’s heartache and hopeful angst that would really set Tragic Kingdom on fire—and launch No Doubt into superstardom and Stefani as a pop culture luminary, first with the lead single, "Just A Girl." With sunny, swirling opening guitar riffs and Stefani, in her signature vocal quaver, belting about feeling under the thumb of protective parents and the misogynies of society, "Just A Girl" became one of the most important feminist anthems of the decade. Tragic Kingdom, released on October 10, 1995, also earned the band a substantial number of awards including GRAMMY nominations in 1997 and 1998. Producing seven singles over three years, the album not only featured some of the most definitive songs of its era, but its visceral lyrics and innovative genre-bending would make a significant impact on the fabrics of pop and rock music at large. 25 years later, the album endures both as a confessional pop masterpiece and beloved classic that continues to resonate deeply. 

With Eric at the helm, quirkiness was a defining quality of No Doubt’s sound. Though a bit scattered, his zany compositions carved out a fearless approach the band would continue to carry after he left—which worked in their favor, since the departure made space for the artistic idiosyncrasies of the other members to shine. Dumont’s technical dexterity, for example—the result of a varied background of playing in heavy metal bands and studying classical guitar theory in college. Fan-turned-drummer Adrian Young, with his feverish yet nuanced pummel executed in the vein of Rush's Neal Peart. Kanal, who had absorbed '80s rock from his pre-Angeleno childhood in England, played in his high school jazz band, and found profound inspiration in Prince. And Gwen, a self-proclaimed "ska chick" who loved The Sound of Music, old Hollywood glamour and the Police. While the group retained the madcap spirit that had always made them so much fun to listen to, this version of No Doubt was more structured than ever—a cohesiveness partly in credit to Wilder, to be sure, but they found their sweet spot within each other. The band’s amalgamation of influences and individual strengths created a fresh sound that was so distinct and yet so hard to define, which is what made it—and continues to make it—so brilliant. And it set them apart from the heavy broodiness of contemporaries like Nirvana, Soundgarden and Hole that then ruled the alternative mainstream.

The shift is heard immediately on "Spiderwebs," Tragic Kingdom’s opener, which combines a new wave-tinged melody with bubbly reggae bass licks and a mosh-inducing chorus. It transitions perfectly into the rapid-fire punk of "Excuse Me Mr.," a song about desperately vying for unrequited attention, the sonic blistering of which is similarly channeled in the angsty "Sixteen." Then, there's "Happy Now?," a guitar-driven rock track detailing a certain painful breakup with acerbic lyrics like "Now you must adhere / To your new career of liberation / You've been cast all by yourself / You're free at last." Hints of horn blast throughout the album adding a brightness to songs such as "Sunday Morning"—one of the Tragic Kingdom’s best, with ska and pop elements, ascending drums and a deliciously bitter Stefani who sneers, "Now you’re the parasite."

The consummate song about Kanal and Stefani's relationship, of course, is "Don't Speak." Originally, Dumont told Complex, Eric wrote most of it. Only after working on it together as a band was it elevated to a rock ballad with Spanish guitar, with Gwen rewording the lyrics to reflect what was happening in her life. It took on even more meaning as No Doubt was blowing up and Stefani began receiving significantly more attention than her bandmates—the simmering tension of which is played up in the song’s music video. The song’s popularity—and, to a larger extent, the album’s—made it challenging to keep revisiting the breakup each time they did press, Kanal said. But, he added, "The fact that we got through all that stuff and we persevered through all that is a real testament to our friendship. I think it’s also a testament to how much the band means to us. We didn’t let it break us up as a band, and we just kept going and it made us stronger."

Tragic Kingdom is widely considered a breakup album, and it is, but the heartbreak also extends to more than just Stefani and Kanal. The band faced so much tragedy in their formative years, starting with suicide of co-founder John Spence in 1987 when they were only a year old. Spence shared vocal duties with a then-bashful Stefani and was a charismatic frontman who did backflips on stage. Days before No Doubt were to perform at the Roxy Theatre, a gig they hoped would be their big break, he shot himself. The Roxy was announced as the devastated band’s final show. They reunited a month later because, Stefani told Interview, it’s what Spence would have wanted. The unreleased song, "Dear John," pays tribute to their friend.

And then there was Eric’s exit. While it set No Doubt on their course, it rattled their confidence emphatically. It was traumatic, Dumont said. "We were just a group of friends who were really tight, and we had our band for years. Our band just got rocked with this intense, personal stuff." And, Stefani admitted, it almost made them give up. "We were sitting there saying to ourselves, ‘O.K., we are 26. We’ve been doing this for eight years. Maybe we should finish up and get adult lives now.’ Then the record came out and people thought it was good, which was really weird, because we were always the dork band from Anaheim." "The Climb," a psychedelic slow burner that alludes to overcoming obstacles, is one of Eric’s two solo offerings to Tragic Kingdom—the other being the freaky title-track, which describes a dystopian Disneyland and Walt’s cryogenically frozen tears as dripping icicles—and has emerged as a fan-favorite over the years.

But while No Doubt’s early years may have been flooded with drama, plumbing the depths of it helped them find their voice. Collective agony cultivated the strength of their bond and dug into an honest narrative about navigating loss that is not only powerful, but universally relatable. We all experience pain. It’s an intrinsic part of the human experience. And we tend to relate to art that, even if ever so slightly, taps into our grief because it expresses it in a way that we perhaps exactly can’t. It hits a nerve. And that’s deeply comforting—which is arguably why Tragic Kingdom continues to endure in the powerful way that it does: yes, it’s poetic, gorgeously dynamic, and sounded fizzy and fresh against the band’s radio contemporaries. But it’s also a symbol of hope in the wake of tragedy.

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Craig David on the set of his "Fill Me In" music video in 2000

Craig David on the set of his "Fill Me In" music video in 2000

Photo: Naki/Redferns

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Can You Fill Me In: 20 Years Of Craig David's 'Born To Do It'

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Released two decades ago this month in his native U.K., Craig David's breakout debut album marked the definitive moment when U.K. garage went supernova and transformed the singer from a supporting player into a GRAMMY-nominated R&B star
Jack Tregoning
GRAMMYs
Aug 27, 2020 - 7:46 am

In March 2001, 19-year-old Craig David was on top of the world. The singer-songwriter's debut full-length, Born To Do It, entered the U.K. albums chart at No. 1 on the week of its August 2000 release. By the new year, he had arena shows booked across the U.K. At the beginning of the month, David played for a sold-out crowd at London's prestigious Wembley Stadium, while camera crews shot footage for a future concert film. As coming-out parties go, it was the stuff of dreams. 

On the road that spring, David spoke to the Los Angeles Times about his hopes of cracking America. (He also discussed the careful upkeep of his already-famous beard, seen on the cover of Born To Do It: "It takes about 30 minutes to perfect the symmetry.") While confident in his talents, David knew U.S. success was no sure thing: "I'm at square one." 

What he could offer new ears, though, was the distinctly British sound of U.K. garage. The genre, which evolved out of the U.S. garage scene led by DJ-producers like Todd Edwards and Mood II Swing, is also referred to as 2-step garage or simply 2-step. (Genre sticklers might quibble, but the terms are often used interchangeably to describe the same sound.) At the time, David gave the Los Angeles Times a neat explainer on the genre that launched him. "It's a hybrid of R&B; and house-garage where you take the bass drum off the second and fourth beats of the bar," he said. "That gives a unique skipping feel." 

After bubbling up in grimy London clubs via DJs like MJ Cole and DJ EZ, the genre went mainstream in the Y2K era. In May 1999, Shanks & Bigfoot's unassuming U.K. garage tune, "Sweet Like Chocolate," hit No. 1 on the U.K. singles chart. That November, U.K. garage duo Artful Dodger released "Re-Rewind (The Crowd Say Bo Selecta)," featuring a then-little-known Craig David on vocals. The single fused all the hallmarks of garage—complete with a twitchy beat, breaking glass sound effects and a DJ "backspin"—with the crossover appeal of David's honeyed vocals. "Re-Rewind" reached No. 2 on the charts, officially marking the arrival of the genre's new star.

For David, Born To Do It was the natural next step after the breakout success of "Re-Rewind," but he had no intention of making a pure U.K. garage record. The album, released 20 years ago this month, captures an artist as steeped in U.S. R&B and pop as the "unique skipping feel" taking over U.K. dance floors. Born To Do It also marked the definitive moment when U.K. garage went supernova, a double impact that saw the underground British genre and its bright young ambassador gain enough mass appeal to crack the U.S. 

Watch: Fun Times With Rudimental

David met Mark Hill and Pete Devereux, aka Artful Dodger, in their shared hometown of Southampton on England's south coast. After watching the teenager DJ at a local club, the duo invited David to their modest studio the next day. David performed on three tracks on Artful Dodger's debut album, It's All About The Stragglers (2000), including "Re-Rewind." The guest-heavy LP, which also featured British vocalists Michelle Escoffery, Romina Johnson and Lifford, applied pop sheen to a U.K. garage template. (With only a few of its tracks available on streaming services, It's All About The Stragglers is now something of a rare gem.)

Mark Hill recognized that David's ambitions went beyond guest spots. "We couldn't afford to pay him for the vocals [on Stragglers] so we just offered him studio time as well and I could help to produce his stuff … " Hill recalled in an interview with Soul Culture. Born To Do It evolved organically from that laidback arrangement. Without any outside input or label pressure, Hill and David finished the album before "Re-Rewind" blew up in the clubs. After that boost, the pair went back to record one more track that could "bridge the gap," as Hill put it to Soul Culture, between the Artful Dodger sound and the Craig David solo project. That late addition to the track list was called "Fill Me In." 

Released ahead of the album in April 2000, "Fill Me In" debuted at No. 1 on the U.K. singles chart. Sonically, its stuttering drums and lush string samples would've been at home on It's All About The Stragglers. However, its songwriting highlighted David's specific touch, with lyrics that shift perspective from the teenagers creeping around to the watchful parents. Buoyed by the success of "Fill Me In" and its follow-up single, "7 Days," released that July, Born To Do It was a lock to top the U.K. albums chart. 

With Wembley conquered, David set his sights more keenly on the U.S. Atlantic Records released Born To Do It stateside in 2001, peaking at No. 11 on the Billboard 200 chart. The singer toured North America with an eight-piece band in early 2002, then closed his trip that February at the GRAMMYs, where "Fill Me In" was nominated for Best Male Pop Vocal Performance. While David didn't win, he shared the category with his boyhood hero, Michael Jackson who was nominated that year for "You Rock My World." It was another pinch-yourself moment for the striver from Southampton. "It's all been very surreal," David told Billboard in 2001. "When I do interviews, I sometimes talk in the third person, like I'm watching this other artist grow." 

After the ice-breaker of "Fill Me In," Born To Do It soon strays from the U.K. garage mold. In addition to Michael Jackson, David grew up listening to his mom's favorites like Terence Trent D'Arby, Stevie Wonder and The Osmonds. Later, he discovered the new school of '90s R&B from across the Atlantic. By 19, he was hyperliterate about the music that shaped him. In his concert film, Off The Hook...Live At Wembley (2001), David excitedly recounts the story of an out-of-the-blue call from rap mogul Sean Combs, known then as Puff Daddy. "This guy is a pioneer in taking old samples and bringing them into contemporary music, from [The Notorious] B.I.G. to 112 to Faith Evans," he marvels to the camera. "And this guy is on the phone telling me he likes 'Fill Me In.'" 

That easy familiarity with the history of U.S. R&B and pop runs throughout Born To Do It. On "Rendezvous" and "Last Night," David strikes a silky loverman tone that recalls the likes of Usher and Ginuwine. Warm Spanish guitar carries "7 Days," which earned David his second GRAMMY nomination for Best Male Pop Vocal Performance in 2003. Its catchy, humble-bragging chorus ("I met this girl on Monday / Took her for a drink on Tuesday") later went on to launch a million memes. "Time To Party" is a peppy, innocent celebration of Friday nights at the club, while "Follow Me" slows things right down in a D'Angelo-like bedroom jam. Then there's "Bootyman," which somehow riffs on the nursery rhyme "One, Two, Buckle My Shoe" and "The Candy Man" song from Willy Wonka, while also spelling out the URL "www.CD.com" in full.

For all of David's smoothness, Born To Do It is more suggestive than explicit, painting David as the R&B casanova you could bring home to mom. Just as "Fill Me In" considered the parents' perspective, "Can't Be Messin' Around" is about staying faithful to a girlfriend despite the come-ons of an interloper "wanting me to hold her oh so tightly." Late album highlight "You Know What" then balances the libido and lovestruck yearning as David croons about the one that got away.  

David released his second album, Slicker Than Your Average, in November 2002. Unlike the boyish ease of Born To Do It, the follow-up opens with a score-settling title track. "Ever since I first stepped up / They thought I wasn't good enough," David sings. The song lists dings made against the singer—he's too "squeaky clean," he's got nothing to say, he's a one-hit wonder—then dismisses them with pointed swagger. 

Despite his usually sunny outlook, David chafed against the barbs that came with fame. In 2002, the U.K. sketch show "Bo' Selecta!" turned the singer into a recurring caricature, destining him to years of punchlines. (The show's creator, Leigh Francis, recently apologized for his insensitive portrayal of Black celebrities.) After his 2010 Motown covers album, Signed Sealed Delivered, David relocated to Miami for a fresh start. He got shredded, built a loyal Instagram following and DJed for friends at his multimillion-dollar penthouse. Life was good, but he wasn't making music. 

David eventually returned to the U.K. to work on new songs alongside producer White N3rd and others. After a widely shared cameo on Kurupt FM's BBC Radio 1 takeover, David released Following My Intuition in 2016, his first album in six years. Coming full circle from Born To Do It, the LP hit No. 1 in the U.K. Just like that, Craig David was back in the game. 

Ever since that surprise call from Puffy, Born To Do It keeps finding new believers throughout the decades. On his 2007 mixtape cut "Closer," Drake rapped about racing through back streets "on my Craig David sh*t." Ed Sheeran and Disclosure, who grew up bumping Born To Do It on CD, helped encourage Artful Dodger, now known as Original Dodger for legal reasons, to return to production in 2017. Earlier this year, R&B superstar Khalid tapped David for "hidden ad-libs" on his late-night slow burner, "Eleven."

As for the man himself, he's still proud of the staying power of Born To Do It. But as his Instafamous "NOW" wristwatch makes clear, Craig David doesn't dwell in the past. If you're born to do something, the best thing is to keep doing it. 

I Met Her in Philly: D'Angelo's 'Brown Sugar' Turns 25

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Janelle Monáe performing in 2010

Photo by Noel Vasquez/Getty Images

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These Dreams Are Forever: 10 Years Of Janelle Monáe's 'The ArchAndroid'

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The Recording Academy revisits the singer/songwriter's wildly ambitious debut studio album
Jordan Blum
GRAMMYs
May 18, 2020 - 9:24 am

Over the past 15 years, Afrofuturist artist and activist Janelle Monáe has arguably become the Renassiance woman of modern popular culture. After all, she’s achieved a virtually matchless amount of professional success and eclecticism in several fields, such as acting, business and fashion. Clearly, she's a multitalented tour-de-force whose ambitions, skills and perseverance know no bounds. That said, while those ancillary achievements are undeniably remarkable, it’s always been her dazzlingly varied, targeted and clever music that reigns supreme.

In particular, her debut LP, The ArchAndroid, set the stage for all that’d she’d come to be. Released in May 2010 through a partnership between her label Wondaland Arts Society, Bad Boy and Atlantic Records, its fusion of star-crossed sci-fi chronicle, genre-splicing wonderment and interwoven social and personal commentaries signified Monáe as not only a wildly imaginative and capable creator, but also as a fearless spokesperson for external progressivism and internal agency. Unsurprisingly, it resonated with people from the get-go, and although she’s subsequently continued the narrative on 2013’s The Electric Lady—before abandoning her cybernetic veil to fully own her identity with 2018’s Dirty Computer—The ArchAndroid remains her magnum opus.

Conceptually, the record picks up where 2007’s Metropolis: Suite I (The Chase) EP—itself a brief but brilliant appetizer that overtly alludes to Fritz Lang’s 1927 film—left off. At this point, Monáe has already introduced listeners to the plight of her central protagonist and real life alter-ego, Cindi Mayweather (an android who faces oppression and termination in the midst of falling in love with a human, Anthony Greendown). Therefore, she expands Mayweather’s role as both victim and vindicator on The ArchAndroid, with Mayweather continuing to fight against bigotry, tyranny and inequality by becoming a messianic champion of unbridled love, co-existence and free will. Fascinatingly, scholars Daylanne K. English and Alvin Kim—in their text "Now We Want Our Funk Cut: Janelle Monáe’s Neo-Afrofuturism"—suggest that the even character’s surname is symbolic, as it "combines sunny spring and the possibility of death (she ‘may’ or may not ‘weather’ her trials)."

Of course, Monáe is far from the first visionary to tackle such storylines, parables and apperances. In terms of both plot and presentation, her early 2010s aesthetic mirrors that of David Bowie’s 1972 classic Ziggy Stardust, when he also wrote about a dystopic world through the eyes of a sexually fluid savior. (Likewise, his "look" was perhaps just as provocatively prophetic as Monáe’s; however, her famous tuxedo variants are rooted in her upbringing, as they represent a stylish nod to the working class jobs—janitor, maid, trash truck driver, etc.—she and/or her parents had). Similarly, you can’t overlook the parallels to George Clinton’s Parliament-Funkadelic, whose visuals, sounds and messages were similarly colorful and liberating. Also, films like Terminator 2, District 9 and Blade Runner had previously explored the relationship being us and aliens or androids, all the while centering on the central question of what it means to be human. Hell, Monáe’s electronic/alt-rock hodgepodge "Make the Bus"—which also wears its Prince influence on its sleeve—directly references the last film’s inspiration, Philip K. Dick’s 1968 novel Do Androids Dream Of Electric Sheep?

Beyond that, Monáe has never relented from her messages of acceptance, understanding and redefinition regarding the phenological Self and Other. Self-identified as bisexual and pansexual, Monáe’s main goal with every endeavor is to champion civil rights for all marginalized people, be they connected to race, patriarchy, class, faith, or the vast LGBTQ+ spectrum. In a July 2010 interview with The Guardian’s Hattie Collins, she even stipulates: "The ArchAndroid is a mythical figure who went around for centuries, similar to the archangel, or a Neo from The Matrix . . . [it] represents the minority, whether it's a black person, an immigrant, or coming from another country." Thus, the LP follows in the footsteps of other creative benchmarks—like the heavily allegorical X-Men—and solidifies Monáe’s aforementioned prominence in Afrofuturism.

It’s also worth noting the importance of Monáe helping to reestablish the concept album format as beloved and viable. Sure, the artform was quite popular from the late 1960s to the late 1970s; yet, outside of niche subgenres like progressive rock/metal and a few major exceptions (namely, Green Day’s American Idiot), they’re largely absent from the zeitgeist. With its immediate and sustained popularity, though, The ArchAndroid bucks that trend. Not only does it alternate between a multitude of styles—funk, pop, hip-hop, rock, neo-soul, R&B, and a bit of folk—as it houses weighty themes beneath a compelling narrative, but its use of symphonic "Suite" overtures and recurring motifs are just as striving and uncommon in mainstream music. Thus, The ArchAndroid evokes artists like Kate Bush, Madonna, Michael Jackson, James Brown and Simon & Garfunkel while connecting to everything from The Who’s Tommy and Quadrophenia to Kendrick Lamar’s To Pimp a Butterfly and Kid Cudi’s Man on the Moon series.

It’s no shock that a lot of work went into making the album. In fact, it was recorded between 2007 and 2010 at Wonderland Studios in Atlanta; produced by five people (Monáe, Nate "Rocket" Wonder, Roman GianArthur, Chuck Lightning, and Kevin Barnes); and featured many guests, including Saul Williams, Deep Cotton, Of Montreal, Big Boi (with whom Monáe worked on Outkast’s 2006 disc, Idlewild), and a host of orchestral players. As for its cover, John Calvert—in his Quietus write-up "Janelle Monáe: A New Pioneer of Afrofuturism"—wisely sees Monáe’s Egyptian headdress topped by the golden Metropolis as an "homage to free-jazz pioneer Sun Ra . . . who also declared himself a messianic savior and whose aesthetic was the first example of a black musician overtly appropriating sci-fi iconography."

Naturally, all of that effort—as well as the elaborate and intensive promotional period, which included many TV show apperances and a thought-provoking music video for "Tightrope"—paid off, as The ArchAndroid received praise from outlets like The A.V. Club, Entertainment Weekly, NME, Spin and Pitchfork. As a result, it earned her a GRAMMY Award nomination for Best Contemporary R&B Album, the top spot on several end-of-year music magazine lists, and her highest Metacritic score to date, 91. True, it didn’t dominate sales charts at first, but it nonetheless debuted at a respectable #17 on the Billboard 200, and it did comparatively well in Europe.

In hindsight, The ArchAndroid seems even more special and triumphant. Although every piece of the puzzle is essential, some certainly stand out the most. The Wizard of Oz-esque "Suite II Overture" is a marvelous and mysterious nugget of classical imperial instrumentation that foreshadows bits and pieces of the ensuing trek (such as the heavenly gospel fable “57821”). Smartly, its closing handclaps—which conjure another exceptional modern concept album series, The Dear Hunter’s Acts pentalogy—give way to the ingeniously hooky hip-hop/synth pop/R&B mash-up duo of "Dance of Die" and "Faster." We’re only three tracks into The ArchAndroid and it’s already showcasing a superlative level of songwriting, production and sequencing.  

Later, "Sir Greendown" feels like Monáe put a mid-1960s Beach Boys backing behind a classic Motown ode. In contrast, follow-up "Cold War" presents its battle cry of underground revolution ("All the tribes comes and the mighty will crumble / We must brave this night and have faith in love") via an irresistibly peppy and elegiac blend of new wave and Afro-funk. Its vocal-centric ending is beautifully harrowing, too. Delightfully, the LP takes another sharp turn with "Tightrope," a celebratory soul and rap declaration (with help from Big Boi) about keeping a level head throughout the ups and downs of life. Next, the surreal sound collage "Neon Gumbo" cleverly reprises "Many Moons" from the Metropolis EP.

There’s wonderfully folky and hip-hop sorrow within "Oh, Maker," whereas "Come Alive (War of the Roses)" is a sleek and raucous rocker that really swings. Then, "Neon Valley Street" adds delicate strings, invigorating beats and Hendrix-esque electric guitar licks to its core piano ballad yearning before the irresistible “Wondaland” adds intellect and innovation to what might otherwise be mere sugar pop excess. The penultimate "Say You’ll Go" is peppered with the melodic fluidity and altruism of Stevie Wonder, while closer "BabopbyeYa" wouldn’t be out of place in a 1940s jazz piano bar, especially with its interwoven noirish symphony. It absolutely works as a grand finale that leaves you eager to see and hear where The Electric Lady will take you next.

Ten years on, The ArchAndroid is as potent and poetic as ever, capitalizing on the potential of the Metropolis EP to reveal Monáe as master of her craft. The sheer amount of variety and novelty inherent in its arrangements and production is magnificent, perfectly complementing the splendor of her motivated melodies and lyrics. Best of all, her plot never falters from its dual purpose as totalitarian fiction and cautionary tale. Hence, she honors a longstanding tradition of using pop culture to educate and incite her audience, transporting listeners to a breathtaking fantasy so that they’re better equipped to fight injustice upon their return to reality.

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