Happy New Year everyone! hope u enjoyed the holidays, iv been away for a bit but i got this review (from Pitchfork) just for you. All i have to say is since my friend Nnamdi introduced me to this group, i cant put the record down!!!
In the States, the popular perception of soul is that it’s the sound of nostalgia, as defined by Blues Brothers dance-offs, Big Chill soundtracks, California Raisins commercials, Duckie serenades, and the countless dusty hip-hop samples that trigger back-in-the-day remembrances. Even its most visible modern-day adherents-- like Bruno Mars or Justin Timberlake-- reinforce the throwback assocations by using soul music as an opportunity to anachronistically dress up in suits and employ large, identically attired backing bands seated behind large name-plates. But in England, soul has been a ...
In the States, the popular perception of soul is that it’s the sound of nostalgia, as defined by Blues Brothers dance-offs, Big Chill soundtracks, California Raisins commercials, Duckie serenades, and the countless dusty hip-hop samples that trigger back-in-the-day remembrances. Even its most visible modern-day adherents-- like Bruno Mars or Justin Timberlake-- reinforce the throwback assocations by using soul music as an opportunity to anachronistically dress up in suits and employ large, identically attired backing bands seated behind large name-plates. But in England, soul has been a ...
constant lifesource for the country’s musical vanguard, whether it was post-punkers mainlining the music’s emotional charge, 1980s New Pop artists adopting its showbiz sheen, or trip-hop producers taking its essence into more dystopian realms.
The genre's dual existence is perfectly personified by Lady, a Transatlantic collaboration between Atlanta native Nicole Wray and Londoner Terri Walker. The former was once a hotly tipped R&B upstart who scored a hit single collab with Missy Elliot in 1998, but spent much of the 2000s as a pipes-for-hire backing singer for the likes of Kid Cudi and the Black Keys; the latter earned a Mercury Prize nomination in 2003 for her neo-soul debut Untitled, but subsequent releases failed to generate the same critical or commercial traction. Playing the role of matchmaker is Truth and Soul, the production team that helped ensure Aloe Blacc never needs another dollar.
Moreso than the singers’ individual pedigrees, it’s the producers’ involvement that provides the most immediate signpost for Lady’s modernized retro-soul aesthetic, which liberally draws on turn-of-the-70s signifiers -- from the unbridled joy of Jackson Five-era Motown to the proto-disco smooth of Philadelphia's MFSB -- but shirks any attempt for faux-AM-radio fuzziness in favour of crisp, clean contours. But Truth and Soul are under no illusion as to who the real stars of the show are, turning in tastefully unobtrusive, appealingly suave arrangements-- chirpy trumpets, silken strings, bouncing-ball piano lines, George Benson guitar accents-- that cooly complement Wray and Walker’s radiant harmonies rather than overpower them. And, in light of their solo career struggles, the singers clearly relish the opportunity to indulge in a little comfort food soul, resulting in an infectiously fun set with broad, cross-generational appeal.
Lady's is a well-trodden field and, at times, their lyrical tropes are overfamiliar to the point of feeling vague, if not downright lazy (e.g., “keep on running,” “get ready,” “baby slow down... you’re moving too fast”). So Wray and Walker distinguish themselves by amping up the charm and cheeriness to the max: The suggestively titled album highlight “Sweet Lady” is not some portrait of some temptress, it’s a paean to their mothers. And rather than try to play up any contrast in their voices or establish any call-and-response tension, Lady presents itself as a purely united front, portraying the kind of BFF bond so strong it can easily withstand one friend sleeping with the other’s boy. (The song documenting that transgression comes with the polite titular request “Please Don’t Do it Again.”)
But Lady’s geniality shouldn’t be confused for naivety. As the simmering late-album ballad “Habit” makes clear, Wray and Walker are fully aware that they’re often “smiling through the pain,” finding themselves in romantic arrangements that blur the line between feeling loved and feeling trapped; even the innocuously titled “Good Lovin’” suggests a deadbeat boyfriend’s only saving grace is that he's good in the sack. And in that admission we can observe the most authentically retro thing about Lady: how they coyly dress up unsavory subjects in innocent packages as if trying to pull a fast one past Ed Sullivan’s censors.
Moreso than the singers’ individual pedigrees, it’s the producers’ involvement that provides the most immediate signpost for Lady’s modernized retro-soul aesthetic, which liberally draws on turn-of-the-70s signifiers -- from the unbridled joy of Jackson Five-era Motown to the proto-disco smooth of Philadelphia's MFSB -- but shirks any attempt for faux-AM-radio fuzziness in favour of crisp, clean contours. But Truth and Soul are under no illusion as to who the real stars of the show are, turning in tastefully unobtrusive, appealingly suave arrangements-- chirpy trumpets, silken strings, bouncing-ball piano lines, George Benson guitar accents-- that cooly complement Wray and Walker’s radiant harmonies rather than overpower them. And, in light of their solo career struggles, the singers clearly relish the opportunity to indulge in a little comfort food soul, resulting in an infectiously fun set with broad, cross-generational appeal.
Lady's is a well-trodden field and, at times, their lyrical tropes are overfamiliar to the point of feeling vague, if not downright lazy (e.g., “keep on running,” “get ready,” “baby slow down... you’re moving too fast”). So Wray and Walker distinguish themselves by amping up the charm and cheeriness to the max: The suggestively titled album highlight “Sweet Lady” is not some portrait of some temptress, it’s a paean to their mothers. And rather than try to play up any contrast in their voices or establish any call-and-response tension, Lady presents itself as a purely united front, portraying the kind of BFF bond so strong it can easily withstand one friend sleeping with the other’s boy. (The song documenting that transgression comes with the polite titular request “Please Don’t Do it Again.”)
But Lady’s geniality shouldn’t be confused for naivety. As the simmering late-album ballad “Habit” makes clear, Wray and Walker are fully aware that they’re often “smiling through the pain,” finding themselves in romantic arrangements that blur the line between feeling loved and feeling trapped; even the innocuously titled “Good Lovin’” suggests a deadbeat boyfriend’s only saving grace is that he's good in the sack. And in that admission we can observe the most authentically retro thing about Lady: how they coyly dress up unsavory subjects in innocent packages as if trying to pull a fast one past Ed Sullivan’s censors.
In the States, the popular perception of soul is that it’s the sound of nostalgia, as defined by Blues Brothers dance-offs, Big Chill soundtracks, California Raisins commercials, Duckie serenades, and the countless dusty hip-hop samples that trigger back-in-the-day remembrances. Even its most visible modern-day adherents-- like Bruno Mars or Justin Timberlake-- reinforce the throwback assocations by using soul music as an opportunity to anachronistically dress up in suits and employ large, identically attired backing bands seated behind large name-plates. But in England, soul has been a constant lifesource for the country’s musical vanguard, whether it was post-punkers mainlining the music’s emotional charge, 1980s New Pop artists adopting its showbiz sheen, or trip-hop producers taking its essence into more dystopian realms.
The genre's dual existence is perfectly personified by Lady, a Transatlantic collaboration between Atlanta native Nicole Wray and Londoner Terri Walker. The former was once a hotly tipped R&B upstart who scored a hit single collab with Missy Elliot in 1998, but spent much of the 2000s as a pipes-for-hire backing singer for the likes of Kid Cudi and the Black Keys; the latter earned a Mercury Prize nomination in 2003 for her neo-soul debut Untitled, but subsequent releases failed to generate the same critical or commercial traction. Playing the role of matchmaker is Truth and Soul, the production team that helped ensure Aloe Blacc never needs another dollar.
Moreso than the singers’ individual pedigrees, it’s the producers’ involvement that provides the most immediate signpost for Lady’s modernized retro-soul aesthetic, which liberally draws on turn-of-the-70s signifiers -- from the unbridled joy of Jackson Five-era Motown to the proto-disco smooth of Philadelphia's MFSB -- but shirks any attempt for faux-AM-radio fuzziness in favour of crisp, clean contours. But Truth and Soul are under no illusion as to who the real stars of the show are, turning in tastefully unobtrusive, appealingly suave arrangements-- chirpy trumpets, silken strings, bouncing-ball piano lines, George Benson guitar accents-- that cooly complement Wray and Walker’s radiant harmonies rather than overpower them. And, in light of their solo career struggles, the singers clearly relish the opportunity to indulge in a little comfort food soul, resulting in an infectiously fun set with broad, cross-generational appeal.
Lady's is a well-trodden field and, at times, their lyrical tropes are overfamiliar to the point of feeling vague, if not downright lazy (e.g., “keep on running,” “get ready,” “baby slow down... you’re moving too fast”). So Wray and Walker distinguish themselves by amping up the charm and cheeriness to the max: The suggestively titled album highlight “Sweet Lady” is not some portrait of some temptress, it’s a paean to their mothers. And rather than try to play up any contrast in their voices or establish any call-and-response tension, Lady presents itself as a purely united front, portraying the kind of BFF bond so strong it can easily withstand one friend sleeping with the other’s boy. (The song documenting that transgression comes with the polite titular request “Please Don’t Do it Again.”)
But Lady’s geniality shouldn’t be confused for naivety. As the simmering late-album ballad “Habit” makes clear, Wray and Walker are fully aware that they’re often “smiling through the pain,” finding themselves in romantic arrangements that blur the line between feeling loved and feeling trapped; even the innocuously titled “Good Lovin’” suggests a deadbeat boyfriend’s only saving grace is that he's good in the sack. And in that admission we can observe the most authentically retro thing about Lady: how they coyly dress up unsavory subjects in innocent packages as if trying to pull a fast one past Ed Sullivan’s censors.
In the States, the popular perception of soul is that it’s the sound of nostalgia, as defined by Blues Brothers dance-offs, Big Chill soundtracks, California Raisins commercials, Duckie serenades, and the countless dusty hip-hop samples that trigger back-in-the-day remembrances. Even its most visible modern-day adherents-- like Bruno Mars or Justin Timberlake-- reinforce the throwback assocations by using soul music as an opportunity to anachronistically dress up in suits and employ large, identically attired backing bands seated behind large name-plates. But in England, soul has been a constant lifesource for the country’s musical vanguard, whether it was post-punkers mainlining the music’s emotional charge, 1980s New Pop artists adopting its showbiz sheen, or trip-hop producers taking its essence into more dystopian realms.
The genre's dual existence is perfectly personified by Lady, a Transatlantic collaboration between Atlanta native Nicole Wray and Londoner Terri Walker. The former was once a hotly tipped R&B upstart who scored a hit single collab with Missy Elliot in 1998, but spent much of the 2000s as a pipes-for-hire backing singer for the likes of Kid Cudi and the Black Keys; the latter earned a Mercury Prize nomination in 2003 for her neo-soul debut Untitled, but subsequent releases failed to generate the same critical or commercial traction. Playing the role of matchmaker is Truth and Soul, the production team that helped ensure Aloe Blacc never needs another dollar.
Moreso than the singers’ individual pedigrees, it’s the producers’ involvement that provides the most immediate signpost for Lady’s modernized retro-soul aesthetic, which liberally draws on turn-of-the-70s signifiers -- from the unbridled joy of Jackson Five-era Motown to the proto-disco smooth of Philadelphia's MFSB -- but shirks any attempt for faux-AM-radio fuzziness in favour of crisp, clean contours. But Truth and Soul are under no illusion as to who the real stars of the show are, turning in tastefully unobtrusive, appealingly suave arrangements-- chirpy trumpets, silken strings, bouncing-ball piano lines, George Benson guitar accents-- that cooly complement Wray and Walker’s radiant harmonies rather than overpower them. And, in light of their solo career struggles, the singers clearly relish the opportunity to indulge in a little comfort food soul, resulting in an infectiously fun set with broad, cross-generational appeal.
Lady's is a well-trodden field and, at times, their lyrical tropes are overfamiliar to the point of feeling vague, if not downright lazy (e.g., “keep on running,” “get ready,” “baby slow down... you’re moving too fast”). So Wray and Walker distinguish themselves by amping up the charm and cheeriness to the max: The suggestively titled album highlight “Sweet Lady” is not some portrait of some temptress, it’s a paean to their mothers. And rather than try to play up any contrast in their voices or establish any call-and-response tension, Lady presents itself as a purely united front, portraying the kind of BFF bond so strong it can easily withstand one friend sleeping with the other’s boy. (The song documenting that transgression comes with the polite titular request “Please Don’t Do it Again.”)
But Lady’s geniality shouldn’t be confused for naivety. As the simmering late-album ballad “Habit” makes clear, Wray and Walker are fully aware that they’re often “smiling through the pain,” finding themselves in romantic arrangements that blur the line between feeling loved and feeling trapped; even the innocuously titled “Good Lovin’” suggests a deadbeat boyfriend’s only saving grace is that he's good in the sack. And in that admission we can observe the most authentically retro thing about Lady: how they coyly dress up unsavory subjects in innocent packages as if trying to pull a fast one past Ed Sullivan’s censors.
In the States, the popular perception of soul is that it’s the sound of nostalgia, as defined by Blues Brothers dance-offs, Big Chill soundtracks, California Raisins commercials, Duckie serenades, and the countless dusty hip-hop samples that trigger back-in-the-day remembrances. Even its most visible modern-day adherents-- like Bruno Mars or Justin Timberlake-- reinforce the throwback assocations by using soul music as an opportunity to anachronistically dress up in suits and employ large, identically attired backing bands seated behind large name-plates. But in England, soul has been a constant lifesource for the country’s musical vanguard, whether it was post-punkers mainlining the music’s emotional charge, 1980s New Pop artists adopting its showbiz sheen, or trip-hop producers taking its essence into more dystopian realms.
The genre's dual existence is perfectly personified by Lady, a Transatlantic collaboration between Atlanta native Nicole Wray and Londoner Terri Walker. The former was once a hotly tipped R&B upstart who scored a hit single collab with Missy Elliot in 1998, but spent much of the 2000s as a pipes-for-hire backing singer for the likes of Kid Cudi and the Black Keys; the latter earned a Mercury Prize nomination in 2003 for her neo-soul debut Untitled, but subsequent releases failed to generate the same critical or commercial traction. Playing the role of matchmaker is Truth and Soul, the production team that helped ensure Aloe Blacc never needs another dollar.
Moreso than the singers’ individual pedigrees, it’s the producers’ involvement that provides the most immediate signpost for Lady’s modernized retro-soul aesthetic, which liberally draws on turn-of-the-70s signifiers -- from the unbridled joy of Jackson Five-era Motown to the proto-disco smooth of Philadelphia's MFSB -- but shirks any attempt for faux-AM-radio fuzziness in favour of crisp, clean contours. But Truth and Soul are under no illusion as to who the real stars of the show are, turning in tastefully unobtrusive, appealingly suave arrangements-- chirpy trumpets, silken strings, bouncing-ball piano lines, George Benson guitar accents-- that cooly complement Wray and Walker’s radiant harmonies rather than overpower them. And, in light of their solo career struggles, the singers clearly relish the opportunity to indulge in a little comfort food soul, resulting in an infectiously fun set with broad, cross-generational appeal.
Lady's is a well-trodden field and, at times, their lyrical tropes are overfamiliar to the point of feeling vague, if not downright lazy (e.g., “keep on running,” “get ready,” “baby slow down... you’re moving too fast”). So Wray and Walker distinguish themselves by amping up the charm and cheeriness to the max: The suggestively titled album highlight “Sweet Lady” is not some portrait of some temptress, it’s a paean to their mothers. And rather than try to play up any contrast in their voices or establish any call-and-response tension, Lady presents itself as a purely united front, portraying the kind of BFF bond so strong it can easily withstand one friend sleeping with the other’s boy. (The song documenting that transgression comes with the polite titular request “Please Don’t Do it Again.”)
But Lady’s geniality shouldn’t be confused for naivety. As the simmering late-album ballad “Habit” makes clear, Wray and Walker are fully aware that they’re often “smiling through the pain,” finding themselves in romantic arrangements that blur the line between feeling loved and feeling trapped; even the innocuously titled “Good Lovin’” suggests a deadbeat boyfriend’s only saving grace is that he's good in the sack. And in that admission we can observe the most authentically retro thing about Lady: how they coyly dress up unsavory subjects in innocent packages as if trying to pull a fast one past Ed Sullivan’s censors. watch their video below and get sucked into the soul magic like i did lol
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