ALBUM REVIEWS
Mike Ruiz/The Prince Estate
PrinceToward the end of his life, Prince was creating so much music that he appeared to lose sight of his vision. Although his records contained glimmers of brilliance, he had started entombing potentially glorious singalong choruses, jaw-dropping guitar solos, and clever lyrics in overwrought R&B and heavy-handed garage rock. (Check the sparkly impotence of 1999’s Rave Un2 the Joy Fantastic.) And unlike the stunning concerts he performed until his death, his albums felt sinful (and not in a Dirty Mind kind of way), since the music was often so generic that it barely echoed the raw talent that originally consecrated the title of His Royal Badness. But as the posthumous releases culled from his fabled vault have recently proven, what the Artist deemed worthy of release rarely represented his capabilities.
The latest discovery, Welcome 2 America — a full album of fun, funky pop and R&B from 2010 — proves just how unreliable his instincts were since he inexplicably shelved it. From track one, it’s instantly more likable than everything he released between 2009 and 2014. The grooves are funkier, the sex jams are sexier, and the Curtis Mayfield homages are superflyier. Reports from his collaborators are that he loved the album when he made it. In fact, he liked the title Welcome 2 America so much that he named a tour after the record. So what happened? Whatever crisis in faith led to him abandoning the record is now forever lost to the Great Purple Beyond, but at least its release now shows where his head was at when he made it.
Prince cut the record with a one-off lineup that included bass virtuoso Tal Wilkenfeld and drummer Chris Coleman, and the chemistry is undeniable from the first song, “Welcome 2 America,” which feels like a cousin, once or twice removed, of “Sign ‘o’ the Times,” with its bass-heavy backdrop and Prince’s didactic takedown of American values. He performs scabrous screeds about the housing market crash of 2008 and his contempt for iPhones and reality TV with a sort of hepcat-beatnik swagger that’s equal parts Gil Scott-Heron and Maynard G. Krebs. Some of it’s corny (“Go 2 school 2 become a celebrity … but don’t B late because everybody and their mama got a sex tape”) but hey, so were some of the lines in “Sign.”
He continues his tableau of American dystopia on “Running Game (Son of a Slave Master),” a hip-hop–inflected indictment of the music industry for taking advantage of budding musicians. Although he and his backup singers trade upbeat melodies, and he throws in some “What’s Going On”–style background chatter, his lyrics about Black-on-Black crime are sobering. Along with the Mayfield paean “Born 2 Die” and the dreamy “1,000 Light Years From Here,” “Running Game” fits perfectly with “Controversy,” “Race,” “Baltimore,” and all the other songs Prince has written about how the U.S. is particularly Orwellian for Black people.
As always, his message is for people to persevere, echoed in “Stand Up and B Strong,” a cover of a Bon Jovi–like power ballad by Soul Asylum, with a gospel-R&B makeover and one of the album’s best guitar solos. The LP’s closing track promises “One Day We Will All B Free” over disco-guitar scratching and jazzy chord changes. In some ways, the social-justice aspect of the album (and its soulfulness) feels like a descendent of There’s a Riot Goin’ On, by one of Prince’s favorite groups, Sly and the Family Stone.
But the album isn’t all as serious. Prince and his bandmates cut loose on “Hot Summer,” an Elvis Costello–style beach-rock banger (complete with Farfisa organ) that probably would have sounded better live, and the song “Yes” feels like something caught between a Broadway revue and a halftime cheerleader show (the female backup singers chant, “If U’re ready 4 a brand-new nation … say yes!”) but it’s so posi, you can’t help but smile.
But the album’s best song is “When She Comes,” since Prince always did his best work when he was horny. In full “Do Me Baby” mode (piano, light guitar strumming, falsetto vocals, uh, bedroom sound effects), Prince describes his lover’s orgasm in the way only Prince could (“Occasionally, she cries/Please don’t ask me Y” — don’t worry, Prince, we won’t) and it feels natural. It’s Prince’s dirty mind, then aged 52, in arrested development, and the song is the sort of glorious audio pornography that would have made Tipper Gore phone all her friends in 1984, but seems tame compared to the Ying Yang Twins’ “Wait (The Whisper Song),” recorded five years earlier. Prince completely rewrote “When She Comes” with horns and accordion for 2015’s HitnRun: Phase Two, and while it’s still potent, there’s an intimacy to the Welcome 2 America version that sounds freer. Unfortunately, he took the time to overthink the song (and the album as a whole), which might explain why so many of his records came out sounding stilted.
But even if Prince had released Welcome 2 America in 2010, it’s hard to imagine how it would have been received. He had scored an unlikely hit in 2006 with 3121’s “Black Sweat,” which musically sounded like his own “Kiss” reimagined as a G-funk song, but that was his only Billboard hit since 1999. Pop music in 2010 was all about Katy Perry’s “Teenage Dream” and the Black Eyed Peas’ “Dirty Bit,” neither of which sound very much like anything on Welcome 2 America. Then again, judging from the lyrics to “Welcome 2 America,” Prince wasn’t interested in the pop life anymore anyway. What he did care about will remain a mystery, but puzzle pieces like Welcome 2 America will always be welcome.
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More than most bands that began in the backseat of the family car, Car Seat Headrest seem well-suited for a high-concept rock opera. From the band’s earliest days, when the project was just Will Toledo recording alone in Virginia, songs were never just as simple as singer and subject—his 2011 album Twin Fantasy was a romantic epic sheepishly masquerading as a ramshackle emo record. His 2020 record Making a Door Less Open was essentially a treatise on fame itself, and culminated in Toledo adopting the persona “Trait,” a gas-masked, bunny-eared protagonist previously introduced in a Car Seat Headrest side project called 1 Trait Danger. When Car Seat Headrest began teasing their new record, The Scholars, via an alternate reality game-style website, it felt like an appropriately elaborate rollout for a band who’s rarely taken reality at face value.
And yet, Toledo was hesitant to dive head-on into the full-scale world-building of a rock opera. To hear him tell it, he seemed afraid that he might stumble into one of the genre’s many pitfalls. “You pull something off of The Wall—it’s not necessarily going to be banging on its own. It needs that context,” he told the podcast How Long Gone. “I like when you can pull a song out and have that individual piece.” It’s a brutal assessment of Pink Floyd, though it comes from a deep respect (the original version of Twin Fantasy’s “High to Death” interpolated “Jugband Blues,” after all).
On The Scholars, every song aims to be an “Another Brick in the Wall Pt. 2”—nine self-contained epics that, Toledo hopes, will sum to a greater whole. But overburdened by a confusing plot, with no room for a listener to digest the bevvy of settings and characters he’s just introduced, The Scholars is mired in and muddied by the madcap impulses of its creator, drowning out what would otherwise be some of the band’s most inspired, experimental compositions to date. The Scholars is a rock opera for the playlist era; it wants to contain both a richly textured narrative—with all the character development, internal motivations, and rising and falling action required therein—and also nine songs that can stand alone, plucked out of context and jutted up against whatever other songs happen to land on Spotify’s autoplay.
So, the plot: The Scholars takes us to the imaginary Parnassus University, where we meet a cast of students who are all on parallel searches for meaning: our narrator, the Chanticleer; Beolco, a playwright who’s paranoid his best ideas are behind him: “A thousand ideas piled up in the tomb,” he says on “CCF (I’m Gonna Stay With You)”; Devereaux, the “son of a backwaters religious conservative” who hopes to find higher meaning on the libertine lawns of the American university (“Devereaux”); and Rosa, a medical student who can revive the dead (“Gethsemane”). There is also, of course, a local community based on dressing in furs and feathers (“Lady Gay Approximately”), which I’ll let the Redditors decipher.
These plot points matter as much as you care to listen closely: There are pivotal moments in the form of a deadly plant and clown raid that I somehow missed in the first listen, too distracted by the stylistic changeups and clouded metaphors crammed into every song. Most of the key narrative drivers are buried in liner notes on the lyric sheet but aren't represented anywhere in the music. Certain songs carry enough momentum to warrant repeat listens out of the album context: “The Catastrophe (Good Luck With That, Man)” takes the familiar punk-leaning pop shape that has defined Car Seat Headrest, the chiming strums of an acoustic guitar giving way to drum fills, reverb, and Toledo’s fuzzy, clipped vocals. The same goes for “True/False Lover,” which careens from guitar solo to verse with the practiced ease of someone who’s spent the past 15 years writing hooks.
But the preceding three songs, which range from 10 minutes on the short end to 18 at the longest, test the premise of the album and the patience of the listener. “Gethsemane” begins quietly with just a synth and Toledo’s voice; “Reality” brings to mind Air’s Moon Safari; “Planet Desperation” is the most forthrightly self-serious, with somber piano and the slow beat of a kick drum. Yet they all manage to wind up in about the same place at their halfway points—stuttering prog interludes, towering electric guitar solos, belted refrains that seem to come out of nowhere and fade just as quickly. Storylines are lost in the mayhem: I feel like I’m catching the plot but then as soon as guitarist Ethan Ives, as Parnassus’ Liberal Arts school dean Hyacinth, sings “I would go out/But there’s a world war,” I feel totally lost again. It’s almost impressive how much these disparate modes seem to converge on a central sound, and how much that sound boils down to: play loud, play fast, repeat. There’s a reason, it seems, that The Wall includes comparatively quieter tracks like “Empty Spaces” or “One of My Turns”—if every song needs to stand alone, they each require some sort of internal climax, a summit that feels exhausting to climb song after song.
Still, The Scholars is filled with compelling experimentation and glimpses of greater potential. Toledo’s voice sounds stronger than ever here, warmly recorded in analog, and songs like “Devereaux,” which lean into power pop influences like the Cars and Cheap Trick, feel like the most successful attempt to combine narrative with concise songcraft. “CCF,” one of the album’s standout songs, sounds like a potential future path for Car Seat Headrest—one that introduces elements of jazz and funk to his fundamentally scrappy sound without overpowering it with heavy-handed signifiers and seemingly endless trips up and down the neck of his guitar. Car Seat Headrest is a band almost predestined for the kind of high-stakes storytelling a rock opera requires—if only Toledo could let his own ideas breathe.
