Apparently, success has spoiled Mike Skinner. It's a common problem among artists who are also working-class social critics: if they become successful, it's increasingly difficult to go back to the well when everything they've used for material changes drastically -- friends and lovers, home life, work life, and social life. The wallflower who could study his subjects for hours suddenly lacks for good material when he's the center of attention. Instead of attempting the charade of being a working-class chronicle, he's moved ...
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Apparently, success has spoiled Mike Skinner. It's a common problem among artists who are also working-class social critics: if they become successful, it's increasingly difficult to go back to the well when everything they've used for material changes drastically -- friends and lovers, home life, work life, and social life. The wallflower who could study his subjects for hours suddenly lacks for good material when he's the center of attention. Instead of attempting the charade of being a working-class chronicle, he's moved on to the types of problems that come with celebrity, including trashed hotel rooms ("I make these crap rap rhythms to pay the hotel bills that fund my passion"), isolation and loneliness ("I got nothing in my life away from the studio"), fake Streets hats ("Fake Streets Hats"), and the other vagaries of fame ("Camera phones -- how the hell am I supposed to be able to do a line in front of complete strangers, when I know they've all got cameras?"). So, are these Skinner's sincere reflections on his surroundings and an artistic statement he's proud of, or are they the result of a parodic persona he's assumed, with its requisite shroud of satire? That's a difficult question (despite Skinner's own assurances that he's sincere), primarily because of all the cynicism, paranoia, misanthropy, and betrayal on this record. Humility has been replaced by arrogance, reflection by anger, and humor by sullenness. The production has changed little from the last record -- hard-hitting, synth-based productions with minimalist melodies and tough, clanging percussion, except for the occasional piano-based ballad. Skinner's lyrics are striking and distinctive as before, but it's difficult to believe this is the same artist who confronted a stereotypical lager lout named Terry on his first album, a track titled "The Irony of It All." The irony here is that Skinner sounds more like the lout. ~ John Bush, Rovi
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Good. Providing great vinyl and media since 1972. All used records are inspected and guaranteed. May have wear and minor issues from previous owner. We ship orders daily and Customer Service is our top priority!
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