​When you think of Halloween media iconicism, John Carpenter's 1978 namesake film starring Jamie Lee Curtis will likely come to mind (the latest major installment of the franchise was released in 2018). Friday the 13th, Nightmare on Elm Street, Child's Play and Scream would probably follow. Children's movies for the holiday are rarely stamped as classics because they aren't bone-chilling enough. Moreover, they often struggle to be more than a piece of nostalgia as their first viewers age. Disney's Hocus Pocus is an exception. A comedy about three minors conquering resurrected sister-witches from the 1600's, it's religiously played on television from September through November. Fans have clamored for a sequel for years, and every milestone anniversary is abundantly celebrated. Costume shops have entire sections dedicated to the film. Nothing speaks to its cross-generational power like a product-line that includes toys and teen costumes, as well as shot glasses and home-ware.
 
The joke is on screen critics from 1993, who lambasted Hocus Pocus and predicted it was doomed for obscurity. They were too busy being their usual fault-finding and cantankerous selves, they missed what would make it eternally bewitching. Senselessly looking at a youth movie through an adult lens, they made a bevy of irrational complaints and observations. For instance, some said it was "too silly;" there's no such thing as that with kids. Others would accuse it of being perverse, revealing their own warped mindsets. One reviewer supposed that the dainty way witch Sarah Sanderson (Sarah Jessica Parker) laid on her broomstick was sexually suggestive (I shook my head and rolled my eyes as I typed that sentence). Parker and the then teenage Vinessa Shaw (who portrayed Allison Watts) were the primary targets of venereal comments, but more on that problematic and unsettling aspect later. Assessments more grounded in logic deemed the film unorganized and conflicted for its contrasting comedic styles and character setups. Its variation enabled it to engage a wide audience though, which is the source of its longevity.  
 
With Hocus Pocus' humor and concepts, many writers took issue with the macabre and mature surrounding lighter fare. Slapstick hijinks and G-rated giggles were alongside moderately sophisticated sarcasm, locker-room references to women's breasts and repeat mentions of virginity. A touching moral about cherishing and protecting your siblings (to the extent of self-sacrifice) is the B-plot to witches stealing children's souls to live forever. Within the first 30 minutes (or less) alone, one child is lured away with a spellbinding lullaby and murdered, another is turned into an immortal cat, and the witches are hung (with a promise to return of course). We see the nooses around their necks, and then a cut to their dangling feet. Nothing too serious, haha.
 
What seemed like terrible, irresponsible and chaotic storytelling to the critics was actually pretty strategic and intentional...and ultimately effective. 
​
Oil of Boil, and a Dead Man's Toe (The Method to the Madness)
 
The Hocus Pocus crew explained the method to their madness in commemorative interviews with the Freeform channel last year. Writer and producer David Kirschner developed the plot with Mick Garris, seeking to break open the market for family movies in the adult-centric Halloween genre. 'House of Mouse' ideology was their compass. "Disney used to say you had to have darkness to have light. The film embraced that," soundtrack composer and long-time Disney collaborator John Debney detailed. Garris described his screenplay (co-authored by Neil Cuthbert) as "dark" and "scarier" than the end result. Moves to brighten and balance the work included making zombie Billy Butcherson (Doug Jones) "one you could date," instead of be frightened of. Choreographer and director Kenny Ortega was recruited to ensure the illuminations translated on tape. "It was a spooky comedy for sure, but it became much more fun than I had ever envisioned, and that's Kenny. He just brought a joy to it," Kirschner reminisced. 

​Warning: This review contains SPOILERS.
 
Film remakes already have plenty to live up to without having to make up for the shortcomings of a previous reboot. Knowing this didn’t keep me from expecting more from Disney’s live-action version of The Lion King, after their endeavor with Aladdin let me down though. The Guy Ritchie-directed Aladdin offered an empowered Princess Jasmine, but other changes and missed CGI (computer generated imagery) opportunities left me feeling annoyed and discontent (you can read my full review here). The Lion King had the added task of setting things right.
 
In the (unlikely) event that you have no idea what The Lion King (1994) is about, it’s kind of a coming of age tale with lots of anecdotes about life stages and how we’re all connected (so, imagine a child-appropriate NBC’s This is Us). Cub Simba (JD McCrary) is the heir to his father Mufasa’s (James Earl Jones; I'm so glad he was able to do the project, no one else would be right) throne, and his disgruntled uncle Scar (Chiwetel Ejiofor) is far from thrilled. Scar concocts a murderous plot with exiled hyenas, so he can rise to power. Simba narrowly escapes, but it’s assumed he’ll die in the wilderness. Meerkat Timon (Billy Eichner) and warthog Pumbaa (Seth Rogen) care for him until adulthood. Simba’s old friend (and eventual spouse) Nala (Beyoncé) crosses his path and relays how Scar ravaged the kingdom of natural resources. Simba (then voiced by Donald Glover) is resistant to the idea of returning home, and feels responsible for Mufasa’s death. Various happenings lead to an identity wake up call for him, and he ultimately challenges Scar’s rule.
 
Director Jon Favreau’s 2019 The Lion King (screenplay by Jeff Nathanson) is mostly faithful to its root text. Many revisions have a clear objective and/or magnify story elements. If there was going to be any similarity to Ritchie’s Aladdin, it could be with strengthening the presence of female leads. Nathanson gives Nala a more nuanced and empowering arc. We see her develop and hash out a grudge with principal hyena Shenzi (Florence Kasumba), and ascend to primacy among the lionesses. She tries to respect the elders in the pack, but becomes impatient with their docility with Scar. She arouses them to fiercely take back their land. Beyoncé does surprisingly well blending in with the rest of the voice cast (Shahadi Wright Joseph portrays young Nala). I’ll admit I doubted her ability to do this, considering her distinctly deep and American Southern accent. There are times where you can tell she’s being careful with her enunciation, but it isn’t distracting.
 
Scar and Shenzi were given extra shading. 1994’s Scar is venomous, but his haughtiness and facetiousness put an attracting glimmer around his shadows. In 2019, he’s reserved, less saucy and his quips are bitter jabs, as opposed to humorous. Ejiofor brings Scar’s acidity and boiling resentment to the surface with his breathy and distressed delivery. Unreciprocated affections are tacked on to the list of things Scar is peeved about, as an infatuation with Mufasa’s wife Sarabi (Alfre Woodard) is intriguingly included. Previously, Shenzi was ill-intentioned, but too uproarious (as only Whoopi Goldberg, who was behind the mic then, can be) to hate. Her update is decidedly diabolical, and no matter is a laughing one. What prevents these character modifications from being a total buzz kill is their apparent purpose. Scar and Shenzi (and her troupe) are unmistakably ominous and scary. The hyenas are convincing as a threat, whereas before, you couldn’t take them seriously. This effect is why you might tolerate Scar’s divo snobbery and some of the hyena banter going missing.

Album Review by Eddie J., Contributing Writer
 
Likes: Cruel Summer, Death By A Thousand Cuts, False God, You Need to Calm Down
Dislikes: Cornelia Street, Me!, The Man
Overall: Overwhelmingly bright and 80's reminiscent; a somewhat disjointed album with enjoyable (though not infectious) pop tracks and ballads
 
Taylor Swift's new album Lover indicates a shift in her vantage point from her last release Reputation, which was notably scathing towards past boyfriends, her former label Big Machine Records, and the Kim-Ye phone-gate scandal. Joyful staccato chords rhythmically ring from a grand piano in Lover's opener "I Forgot That You Existed," as Swift sets the tone singing, "How many days did I spend thinking 'bout how you did me wrong?" The bubbly mid-tempo song resolves with, "It isn't love, it isn't hate, it's just indifference." If Reputation was the pain Swift endured for a night, Lover is her joy that came in the morning. While this kind of 'shift' isn't a new phenomena with artists, it's always gratifying for the listener if it's done properly (e.g. Marvin Gaye's political What's Going On? was followed by the sensual Let's Get It On). The record's theme is one of varying degrees of love:  platonic, familial, self, and of course, romantic (which is in the driver's seat majority of the time).
 
Musically, the bulk of Lover can be described as 'summertime in the 80's,' with synths, percussive bass lines, and major chords galore. Swift's predilection for this nostalgic sound works for her here, just as it did on 1989. It separates her from the current trend of blending pop with trap hip-hop (something she flirted with on Reputation), and it reintroduces her extensive use of an acoustic guitar. She doesn't deliver an over-saturation of cliché commercial ditties, as the album's singles and her previous history would suggest, however. "Death By A Thousand Cuts" is probably the most experimental track, merging classical choral arrangements with folksy acoustic guitars, and arpeggiating harps. All evolve verse to verse, while Taylor holds the fort vocally and lyrically. "False God" casually mixes a jazzy sax riff with mid-tempo electro elements and sparse synthesizers, as if the combination is commonplace. "Soon You'll Get Better," featuring background harmonies by The Dixie Chicks, is a stripped-bare country ballad, with only guitars, banjos and vocals. It's the most personal cut, depicting Swift's emotional state during her mother's battle with cancer. The album as a whole effortlessly changes tempo and musical trajectory through each number, giving the perception that it's shorter than the overwhelming 18 tracks it contains. In addition, many of the songs are around three minutes in length and don't drag on longer than necessary (aside from “Cornelia Street”). This works in the LP's favor, as the compositions are largely straightforward loops that can get very redundant after awhile. 
 
As to be expected, Swift's lyricism is exceptional. Her colorful and imagery-laden illustrations are conflated with her emotions in each song, such as being "drunk in the back of the car," while crying "like a baby"  to reflect her desperation in "Cruel Summer." Nothing is poorly written outside of "Me!," even if the music or melodies don't hold the rest up, like in "The Man." There's not a lot of new ground covered topically, so it stands out when Swift leans towards social or controversial subjects, which seems to be her intention. The concept of "False God" is one of her most daring. Lines like "Religion's in your lips; even if it's a false god, we'd still worship," are sure to rile up Bible Belt Swifties. Resounding excerpts like the harmonized "Shade never made anybody less gay!" on "You Need To Calm Down," and "I'd get there quicker if I was a man" on "The Man" shine a light onto Swift's sociopolitical views and values. The overstated-ness in the content is an exclamation; Swift made sure not to clamor with any figurative language, so that her points are crystal clear. 
 
There aren't many drawbacks to Lover, but the few flaws are blatant. The lack of pop potency is chief among them. Swift showed with 1989 and Reputation that she was capable of creating infectious pop, and crafting a highly cohesive concept album. 1989 had quite a bit of filler, but the songs that weren't (i.e. "Style," "Shake It Off," and "Bad Blood") attached themselves to your subconscious mind after one listen. Reputation had the same contagious quality and conceived a dark, stirring ambiance (ex. "Look What You Made Me Do," "Gorgeous," "End Game"). Lover has a couple of songs that can get stuck in your head, but only after several listens. The wonder of a Taylor Swift pop album is how she brilliantly pairs relatable and clever lyricism with catchy melodies, and has a full-fledged production team to complete the package. With this project, the wonder is replaced with a formulaic approach. Swift's musicality is very particular and arguably limited, so her work will seem "run of the mill" when both infectiousness and an intriguing concept are missing.

Warning: This review contains SPOILERS.

​One by one, Disney’s given live-action makeovers to their classic films, and 1992’s Aladdin is the latest to get that treatment. Each adaptation announcement stirs up excitement from audiences, but there’s also an anxiety and skepticism that expectations won’t be met. When it comes to remakes, viewers tend to look for three things: 1) nostalgia, 2) improved story-telling, and 3) application of today’s technology and/or cultural atmosphere. The 2019 edition of Aladdin (directed by Guy Ritchie; screenplay by Ritchie and John August) fulfills all three criteria a medium amount. That said, you’ll likely leave the theater content, but it’s equally likely there’ll be an undercurrent of disappointment.
 
Not that you’ll need this plot summary, but just for good measure: Aladdin (Mena Massoud) is an impoverished young man, whose life turns around when he finds a mystical lamp that inhabits a Genie (Will Smith). He’s allotted three wishes. He hopes to woo his city’s (the fictitious Arabian Agrabah’s) Princess Jasmine (Naomi Scott), who has her own problems. She’s regularly monitored by palace guards, and is being made to marry to retain her sovereign status. Meanwhile Jafar (Marwan Kenzari), her father’s right hand man, is secretly determined to reign.
 
Misguided casting is often the first thing to threaten a recreation project. In this case, the characterizations of the fictional alter egos were the trouble. Many Disney tales include talking animal friends with splashy personalities. They carry the humor and compliment their human companions. They’re usually positioned peripherally, but they’re essential. In Aladdin, these pet pals were the petulant and mischievous monkey Abu, and the devious and obnoxiously loud parrot Iago. Part of the thrill of a live-action rendering is seeing fantasy elements (like a mouthy monkey) become tangible. Ritchie squandered the opportunity for this. He and his team heavily focused on aesthetic realism, sucking the pizzazz out of Abu and Iago. There was a similar effect in 2017's Beauty & The Beast (you can read my review here).
 
Royal vizier Jafar is an antagonist in name only. His presentation is entirely too subtle, having none of the menacing or magnetic qualities of his cartoon predecessor. When I was younger, I had nightmares about Jafar for years. Kids now are more liable to be scared of Santa Claus than Kenzari’s copy. The character’s allure lies within his shady wit. He does things like deliberately mispronounce Aladdin’s name, and use the guy’s signature song (i.e. “Prince Ali”) to expose and humiliate him. You wonder if Kenzari's’s incarnation is even capable of making a chicken joke. 

​Album Review.
Likes: A No No, The Distance, Portrait
Dislikes: One Mo' Gen
Overall: An atypical MC album; passively executed with lukewarm appeal
 
In the 2010’s, it’s been relatively easy to identify quality or top-tier albums in pop and R&B. They are few and far between, as the proverbial bar has lowered over the years. The sound production is frequently skimpy, wearyingly redundant, and without musicality. Lyrics are egregiously mindless, tacky and casual. Cohesion and consistency are almost nonexistent. The talent is so underdeveloped and ill-fostered, they don’t have the skills to compensate for the other shortcomings. In the end, all you have are records that consist of filler and "cute for the moment" tunes with no enduring power.

​An artist of Mariah Carey’s caliber and experience has enough tools in the box to avoid such potholes. Her writing has always been clever and/or poetic, and required a dictionary (she rarely receives proper credit for this). Her sensibilities with vocal and musical composition keep her work effortlessly timeless and irresistible. That said, it’s confounding that Carey’s newest album Caution fits snugly with post-2010 mediocrity. Romantic desire and lust (with a pinch of disgruntlement) are primary subjects, but the slipshod track order constipates the flow of the content and sound. It prevents a feel for theme, especially one worthy of the LP’s provocative title.
 
Additionally, the most marketable numbers (A.K.A. the promotional singles) are all pushed to the front. This brings attention to the palatability and sustainability issues. Though some songs have mood, attractive traits and $20.00 words, their monotony and/or $0.02 phrasing are overtaking. For example, “Giving Me Life” (featuring Slick Rick and Blood Orange) is noticeably sullen, has an ominous transition, and a curious voice-over from the 1983 film Trading Places. Despite that intrigue, it drones on. You may not make it through to its sixth minute. Otiose F-bombs further diminish cuts already suffering from some hum-drum (ex. “With You”). “Portrait” is a conceptual and stylistic misfit against the other tracks. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think it was meant for a different project. Its presence is welcomed, however, as it best represents Carey’s pen prowess. Co-writers include Bibi Bourelly, Charles Hinshaw and Priscilla Renea. Some who also functioned as producers are Nineteen85, DJ Mustard, Timbaland and The Stereotypes.  
 
8/10 times, a Mariah Carey record will provide selections to delight in for years to come: evocative singles, songs you wish were singles, and those that will be the center of “most underrated” debates. Caution unfortunately falls in that 2/10 ratio. The half hearted and shambolic execution put it there.

If my memory serves me correctly, TV Guide and/or People magazine used to have a feature series called "The Best Show You're Not Watching." Of course, it was to draw attention to exceptional programs that somehow went under the public's radar. If those plugs existed today, primetime drama Nashville would certainly fit the profile. It had critical acclaim, prestigious award nominations and successful off-shooting music/tours, but it was beleaguered by lukewarm ratings and various production obstacles. Premiering in 2012, its highest overall ranking by 2016 was 54. After consecutive years "on the bubble," it was cancelled by its originating network, ABC. It's evidently niche, but fervent "Nashie" fandom pounded the digital pavement with #BringBackNashville, until the fitting CMT came to the rescue with a pick-up. It still wasn't all quiet on the western front, though. Leading lady Connie Britton would get out of Dodge, and CMT eventually opted to axe the serial in a move from scripted broadcasts (sorry for the cheesy western sayings; I couldn't help myself). When Nashville's sixth and final season concludes this month, it will likely be to little hoorah. It's anyone's guess if it will be mentioned years from now. Maybe when Hayden Panettiere (its other prima donna) does a string of blockbusters, or Lennon Stella becomes a household name (if you don't know her yet, you will), it will finally get the interest it deserved. People can print their first "Shows We Should've Watched" piece. For now, it's up to the Nashies and I to light the candles and bid our show proper adieu.
 
I remember the pilot trailer like it was yesterday: seasoned country diva Rayna Jaymes (Britton) has to play industry chess to keep from being put to pasture by the latest "it" girl, Juliette Barnes (Panettiere). Political scandal, and messy familial and romantic entanglements are around the corner. The music nerd, soap-opera lover and Panettiere fan-girl in me was sold; you didn't have to tell me twice to tune in. The press swore it was a parallel to Reba McEntire and Taylor Swift; that still makes me laugh hysterically. They weren't going off anything but the stars' hair color. The vehicle was a better version of Empire (2015), before there was such a thing (ironically, Empire supporting actress Kaitlin Doubleday would join the cast in season five).The narratives were more evenly paced, grounded and detailed, including the business commentary (I especially appreciated the annotations on sexism). As for the weekly soundtrack? Oh my goodness, it was infinitely superior (beneath my commentary is a list of my favorite songs). First-rate production and thoughtful lyricism prevented it from sounding 'made for television.' The pulse of "Music City" authentically beat through, as the content was crafted by local talent (it was sung by the cast). With storytelling being country's supreme trait, the songs exquisitely accented the layered plot lines and characters. Let's delve into all of it, shall we?
 
The Characters
Of Nashville's fictional figures, Juliette, Deacon Claybourne (Charles Esten) and Avery Barkley (Jonathan Jackson) are my top three loves.
Juliette is completely intoxicating, with her sass, irrepressibility and how much of a living train-wreck she can be. Dissecting the complexities of her psyche can become an obsessive compulsion. She's a great example of what meets the eye isn't always the whole story. On the surface, she's a destructive narcissist, but it's not that simple. Having to survive successive traumas (ex. a manipulative mother who struggled with substance abuse, sexually predatory record executives) she developed a self-loathing and maladaptive preservation skills. She doesn't know how to identify or treat something of value (ex. her career, her caring husband) because she's hardly had that. Between her history and many nagging naysayers, you want to see her win (especially because her gloating victory laps are a thing of beauty). Roles like this can be difficult to write for. The question of how to evolve them without making them a 'bore' gets raised. A natural, built-in transition was available for Juliette, but the writers still strangely lost her in seasons five and six. She had post-partum depression, went to rehab, was inadvertently involved in her manager's death (i.e. Jeff Fordham) and was in a plane crash by the end of season four. Recovering from these events (ex. therapy, healing, PTSD, relapse) to come out a better person would've lasted to now. Instead, they had her accusing people of man-stealing, snatching songs from teenagers and accidentally joining a cult. Further, her background was unnecessarily revised to incorporate her mother, Jolene, allowing someone to rape her for money. This nullified the resolve brought by Jolene's sacrificial suicide, after she murdered Juliette's extortionist. The main 'JB' scenario I hated during the ABC run was her sleeping with Jeff. He did everything he could to control/destroy her career, and said she was "trailer trash covered in rhinestones." She'd fight someone like him tooth and nail. She'd never let him in her pants; it wasn't true to the character.

Deacon was the other tortured soul on canvas. He too sprouted from a hard knock life, and inherited his abusive father's battle with the bottle. It hindered his career and "love for the ages" relationship with Rayna for many years. Often, alcoholics are diabolized in media and their afflictions are depicted as choice-based. Much like the persona of Jack Pearson on NBC's This is Us, the portrayal of Deacon Claybourne humanized the addict. It showed crapulence for the ruling illness it is, and how it has a life of its own. To do this, clear division was made between Deacon and his demons. Inherently, he's a gentle and benevolent spirit you can't help but be enamored with. When alcoholism pulls him out of body, he's frigid and tempestuous. The tangibility of his duality is substantially in credit to Esten. His elegant, intricate and arresting work takes you inside each of his alter-ego's emotions. Him shedding a single tear will leave you bawling on the floor. I particularly enjoyed his channeling through his eyes and voice. Those piercing baby blues can be steely, just as easily as they can make you feel overcome with serenity. His vocal cadence is sonorous in a moment of decisiveness or seduction. It's swinging in a congenial exchange, hoarse and howling at a breaking point. Esten's performances are so gripping, you wonder where he's been this whole time. I tell ya', he's Hollywood's best kept secret.

Album Review.
Likes: Maria, Sick of Sittin', Twice, Unless It's with You
Dislikes: Accelerate
Overall: Veers from intriguing to mediocre, but hints at future artistic revitalization

​These days, the average artist drops a new album every two years. This doesn't leave much room for creative growth and contemplation, especially if one is touring and promoting the entire period between. The general end result is an array of rushed and undercooked projects that won't have a lasting impact. In that respect, Christina Aguilera is one of many acts who benefitted from starting a career in the late 1990's and early 2000's. Once upon a time in a galaxy far, far away, it was standard for releases to be 3-4 years apart. The one occasion Aguilera deviated from this, the easily forgettable Lotus (2012) came. Now, after exceeding her usual interval by almost double, she's returned with Liberation. However, it doesn't sound like a lengthy hiatus made much of a difference this turn. When you listen to it, you may ask, "This is all after six years?"
 
Liberation's packaging and opening numbers make promises it can't keep. A bare-faced, wet-haired Aguilera dons the cover. The lead track is a brief, but breathtaking piano and strings instrumental. Our star chanteuse calls, "Where are you? Are you there? Remember?," as a baby laughs in the background. This segues into "Searching for Maria," an interlude where Aguilera wistfully sings the eponymous tune from The Sound of Music (a favorite of hers). Her voice echoes through to "Maria," which samples the ever-haunting 1972 Michael Jackson song of the same title. Jackson's distressed pleas to a love lost lay the stage for her to discuss losing herself. The repeat mentions of Maria are a reference to her middle name; it's how she chooses to represent her once unsullied spirit. She bewails "How was I supposed to know that it would cost my soul? And how am I supposed to face this lonely life I've created?...Was too young to know the difference...I believe my own lies...I'm facing the mirror...Why don't I see her? I just need to see ya', Maria...Don't you keep on runnin' from me." It's a very compelling first six minutes. You're prepared and eager to learn more about her feelings of displacement. Are they personally or professionally based, or both? What is she 'liberating' herself from? Will the album's conclusion be a cliffhanger, or will it reveal that she found Maria? None of these questions are answered to a significant extent. None. It's like being all packed up and ready to go to Disneyland, but your dad never arrives to pick you up.
 
The rock/soul, Woodstock-ish "Sick of Sittin'" implies her exasperation with an industry driven by money versus art, but the active word here is "implies." What it puts forth would be sufficient if its allusions were expounded on in future songs, but alas, they are not. Next is "Dreamers," a prelude to the single "Fall in Line" with Demi Lovato. Little girls tell what they want to be when they grow up, and assert a resolute position of strength. The duet insists to young ones they don't have to live within rigid, gender-biased paradigms. Though it has a valuable message, it isn't distinctly personal. It's also not very enthralling, despite it being dispensed by two powerhouses known for their emotive performances. 

​Album Review.
Dislikes: FOH
Overall: The sleepy, monotonous production drags the whole project down
 
I wish I could say the most disappointing thing about Toni Braxton's newest release (and first on Def Jam Recordings), Sex & Cigarettes, is that it's a very short, 8-track EP. Rather, I say with regret that I stand relieved at its brevity. It's damning liability is its narcoleptic music. Bare-bone arrangements that rely on acoustic guitars, strings and/or piano have their purpose. They're soothing and are a welcomed alternative to heavy rhythms, effects and other production clutter. The minimalism often helps in playing up emotion and creating the perception of intimacy. However, a little adornment is still needed to prevent a 'bare-bones' piece from being a snooze. There are no musical upsurges, noteworthy vocal moments or particularly etching lyrics to awaken the compositions on Braxton's album. They all plateau by the end of the first chorus. I was reminded of every TV scene I've viewed where a police officer yelled "Move on; there's nothing to see here!" On the production team are several individuals Braxton has collaborated with before, including Paul Boutin (ex. The Heat, engineering), Antonio Dixon (ex. Love, Marriage & Divorce, songwriting) and Kenneth 'Babyface' Edmonds (ex. producing and/or writing on every Toni album except Pulse).
 
Though it's unlikely people will be quoting or tattooing lyrics from Braxton's octet, the material is respectable. This excludes the childishly and regressively worded "FOH," the text message acronym for 'f*ck out of here.' Man, do I miss the days where I could get through an album without hearing a song that's phrased like a street or online conversation. I also miss the days of the ever-regal diva who saved the F-bombs for the house (the expletive is also unnecessarily used on "Sex and Cigarettes"). The other thing the content has going for it is that it's conceptually consistent. All the romance-related regret and misery might've been prickling, if the production wasn't so dry. Daryl Simmons, Stuart Crichton, Patrick "J.Que" Smith and singer Colbie Calliat are among those who co-wrote with Braxton. Simmons is a long-time Babyface collaborator whose robust R&B resume includes work with Mariah Carey, Whitney Houston, TLC, Destiny's Child and Boyz II Men. Crichton and Smith have credits with Kylie Minogue, Delta Goodrem, Britney Spears and Jennifer Lopez.
 
The most interesting thing about the EP is that the title track's subject matter isn't what you'd expect it to be. It's actually about a no-good cheater who's been coming to bed smelling like sex and cigarettes. It was smart to name the record after that song, because I'm sure it sparked some curiosity. Sadly, it's probable inquiring parties will quickly move on, because "there's nothing to see here."

Album Review.
Likes: Higher, Higher, Morning Light, Say Something, The Hard Stuff
Dislikes: Man of the Woods, Supplies
Overall:  At best, it's mundane. At worst, it's southern farce that's almost insulting.
 
The debut promotional video for Justin Timberlake's fourth LP, Man of the Woods, shows him out and about in the elements. There are shots of snow, sun covered crops, desert landscapes, babbling brooks and crackling fires. In the voice-over, you hear buzz words like "wild West" and "earthy." JT proclaims that this "personal" record is the one most inspired by his Tennessee roots, in addition to his wife and child. The artwork has a split portrait of him before a winter forest; his apparel is part suit, part flannel/jeans. This is all to impress upon the listener that what they're about to hear will be rustic, raw and unveiling in an insightful and endearing way. In actuality, it's such a shallow, contrived and caricatured performance of 'down-home authenticity,' that it's off-putting and distancing.
 
Timberlake's birth state is the home of the blues (Memphis), bluegrass (Bristol) and country (Nashville). Yet, he fails so miserably to effectively employ their tools, it's as if he only has third-hand familiarity with them. Being an R&B/pop artist who hails from Memphis, you'd think blues would be the go-to framework for this album. Ain't a whiff of B.B. King anywhere. Barely any bluegrass either. Mechanisms of country are used in a sparse and decorative manner. This nearly nullifies the compliment that the genre is smoothly integrated with Timberlake's signature sound. "The Hard Stuff" and "Say Something" with Chris Stapleton is as 'Music City' as it gets. Making things worse, Timberlake uses woefully stereotypical (if not corny) imagery in the lyrics and song-titles to project 'rugged South' (ex. "Man of the Woods," "Flannel," "Living off the Land").
 
Heartfelt storytelling is one of the principal attributes of Tennessee music, but the writing on Man of the Woods is dispassionate, when it's not vacuous. There's a number of songs about relishing in the nourishment and comforts of companionship, but they're sketched out with generality and objectivity. Even when seemingly specific details are mentioned (ex. "Higher, Higher," "Montana"), it's hard to believe there is a singular, significant person who was a muse for this material. The composition and vocal delivery also aren't particularly emotive. "Say Something" has a spurring presentation (mostly thanks to Stapleton), but its point is unclear. Is it about hesitancy in making a statement about the world, your life, or both? Is it 'none of the above?' Thorough sincerity and sweetness is found on the previously referenced "The Hard Stuff" and "Flannel" (despite its tropes), as well as "Young Man." The former two emphasize being unyielding and reliable as a romantic partner. The first verse of the lullaby-like "Flannel" is especially dear, as Timberlake sings of emulating the pure and steadfast love of a parent. "Young Man" is a 'father's advice' dedication to his toddler son, Silas. In order to take Timberlake seriously as someone whose matured enough to give counsel, you'd have to forget the boyish sexual depictions earlier on the record (ex. "Filthy," "Man of the Woods," "Supplies"). "What you gonna' do with all that meat? Cooking up a mean serving, huh?," he asks on "Filthy." *Rolls eyes* "Supplies" is an utterly stupid song, where apocalyptic survival skills are a metaphor for his qualities as a mate. Of course, he has to prop his cojones once more: "Flew in on a 3 AM just to show up and hear your sounds; the multiple times...you ain't had it that way, I can guarantee you that...I'll be the wood when you need heat." None of the other cuts are idiotic like that one, but many are very repetitive and a few are thin in meaning.
 
Man of the Woods is the first JT album that isn't predominately produced by Timbaland. The Neptunes lead this charge. The music is still sleek-sexy-funky-cool, but it's disconcerting that the only new thing they brought to the table was a big dose of...flatness. On most tracks, the rhythms just loop around after a while. A couple feature Timberlake's hallmark melodic switches, which liven things up (ex. Midnight Summer Jam).
 
Justin Timberlake wanted to show us the softer side of his Sears with this endeavor. However, the inattention to theme, lean lyrics and cyclic production worked against him. Instead of appearing humbled, relatable and affable, he comes off as unplugged and out-of-touch. Miley Cyrus' journey back home was more convincing.