The-Dream: Love King (2010)

(Def Jam)

RECOMMENDED

There is a moment on this record that almost made me spit my cereal all over the poor drywall: It's a song called "Yamaha" on which the young R&B master writer/producer The-Dream embodies the Purple Rain era so perfectly, emulating not just the sound and vocal inflections (note fucking perfect) but the songwriting -- if not the lyrics -- of a classic Prince album cut to such an extent that I was sure I'd pressed the wrong button. You can chalk this up as cheap or crass, but anyone who wishes Prince's '80s output was a bottomless well -- in other words, most anyone with any damn sense -- will find it hard to deny that their pulse starts to rush for a minute there. Holy shit, it's 1984 and there's new motherfucking Prince. If I had nothing else to thank The-Dream for (and I do), I thank him for that feeling.

The-Dream is on his way to being a Quincy Jones figure, having cowritten and coproduced some of the most earthshaking crossover hits of the last half-decade, chief among them Rihanna's propulsive "Umbrella" and Beyoncé Knowles' universal "Single Ladies." Either of those is enough to place him firmly in world consciousness, but The-Dream is also a solo artist who sings silky-smooth, frankly sexual slo-jams with an unusual depth and a mild avant garde bent that places him in underground sympathies. The-Dream probably doesn't take himself as seriously as peak-period Prince did; he's more likable and guarded. But he's also less honest, and is more fond of calculated risks than the unfiltered kind. The human cracks of this enjoyable, occasionally brilliant LP are hidden under a haze of trickery and at times even routine.

Which isn't to say you won't dig Love King; its weaknesses are nearly invisible if you take it a bit at a time (it runs 54 minutes). Listen to tracks one through four, or five to nine, or ten to twelve, and you'll have hearts floating above your head. If you're alienated by modern R&B, I'm unaware of any writer and performer who can make an easier time of converting you, convincing you that soul expression has never lost its sophistication and delicacy. Let's pretend Love King is three extended-play records and see how it goes:

EP #1 is the most dubious, opening with a song that spells out its title in the chorus and namedrops "T-mobile" while introducing an insanely annoying gimmick of a throaty, slowed-down Dream vocal reiterating or rambling along across both channels. T.I. provides the record's major cameo on the extremely silly, musically generic "Make Up Bag," a not-at-all-sexist lecture of sorts explaining that the best way to win a lady back after you've fucked her over is to simply buy her very expensive foundation. It reminds me vaguely of the Contours' "First I Look at the Purse" and does employ the classic image of a woman swearing at The-Dream while wearing only panties. The highlight of these four cuts is easily "F.I.L.A.," a remarkable layering of menacing synth wall and syrupy R&B with a "pursue her / do her" rhyme and the hook-filled elated feeling missing from lots of romantic jams. "Sex Intelligent" comes harder; its choppy, robotic grind and light Parliament suggestion are agreeable but feel too studied.

That's one of the problems with Love-King -- its many good ideas are spread too thin. A song like "F.I.L.A." or "Abyss" or "Yamaha" or "Turnt Out" is overflowing with tricks and mad tinkering, while other songs and moments fade into nothingness. One thing undeniable: The-Dream's way with a hook is staggering. Even the weakest songs here will break the will of the most resistant sooner or later. One only wishes he was always working at the level of which he's capable and was less easily seduced by superficial gimmicry. I also have to object to the widespread declaration of The-Dream's music as raunchy or somehow notably explicit. The guy revolves a whole song around not wanting to say "fuck"; this is tame as shit mostly, and I think it would be stronger if it weren't. The-Dream often doesn't seem to be going quite as far as he wants to. He says he'll never be a pop star, he's too raw, but nothing here feels raw enough to start or end a career to me. His lyrics are clever, sure, often ingeniously minimal ("I'll never be the face of a magazine"), self-effacingly funny ("I know this may sound stalkerish..."), and, okay, sexy ("Are you one of those girls that mean 'go' when they say 'stop?'") but he's generally singing politely about vanilla sex, which doesn't strike me as the subversive act that's been depicted.

EP #2, as we're calling it, opens with the baffling retread "Sex Intelligent Remix," best ignored. After we fire into overdrive with "Yamaha," "Nikki, Pt 2" is one of those "ideas" songs; it lives up to Eno's old notion of vague music with its lilting string/synth backdrop and a sort of shapeless vocal with its share of absurdities ("You fuckin' with you fuckin' with you fuckin' with my house"). "Abyss" does a better job of carrying the momentum with a trance or house layer over some fuck music, a kissoff venting session with a powerful chorus. And "Panties to the Side"... well, let's wait a second to talk about this one.

Why do I think The-Dream sounds like a faker even though he explicitly states otherwise? ("If you get tired of fakin' it, call me.") Because he sounds defensive, for one thing; there's less love and romancing here than conquering, and conquering indeed based on an outdated girl-in-every-port romanticism. He's all about the pursuit, like Leisure Suit Larry. The-Dream's love life has also been plastered on tabloid covers enough that we know he's not exactly the "love king," not that it would matter except his estranged wife is Christina Milian. Can I admit here I had kind of a crush on her? He shouldn't do her wrong, man, and if he's so smart about love and shit -- which is all this fucking record is about -- well, what the fuck, dude? Why am I talking about this here? Where are my notes? Oh, here we go...

The final EP catapults us onto 1997 urban radio as envisioned by David Lynch. "Turnt Out" brings us The-Dream's killer falsetto and offers a near-guarantee of involuntary movement. The bangerness of it all is aided by the crazy production which features dense detail and much ticklish, subtle and unsubtle aural tooling. "February Love" we'll address in a moment. Closing track "Florida University" is more than dumb -- it's dumm. Cee-Lo does this kind of thing better and he doesn't have the shirtless golden boy voice that makes the whole enterprise inexplicably disturbing.

Regarding "Panties to the Side" and "Febraury Love" and disregarding the feeling of joy transmitted on contact by "Yamaha," what we have here are two brilliant songs, brilliant so far beyond everything else on the album that the rest of the party gets overshadowed. "Panties" opens with a sample of the MGM logo and bursts into a unique fat-synth dance with whispering fucktalk and apocalyptic autotune; a million ideas from almost as many eras of pop music fire at the bystander, and for once, Dream taps it all with lyrics worth the explicit tag. But "February Love," with its jazzy movements, its perfect integration and dismantling of current trad R&B production, its opening city wastescape by piano, its otherworldly haze, its adorable degenerate harmonies, its sheer unmistaken liquidity... this is the stuff The-Dream is made of, and I want more of this unbridled invention. Possessed with the ability to work within a chosen idiom while shoving the outside-imposed limits aside without so much as a shrug is the mark of some serious fucking artistry. I bet there's more to back it up; can't wait to hear it.