Review by David Jeffries
It's unfortunate that the hype machine behind Sage Francis' second effort for the Epitaph label totally missed the breakthrough factor and decided to sell it as "his most personal record to date." Pound for pound, Human the Death Dance may be his most personal effort, but it's also an incredibly well-built full-length -- even when it borrows from a handful of genres -- and it's arguably his best lyrical effort, undoubtedly his best production-wise. While it's good news that the Sage Francis faithful are getting to peer into the man's head with this "personal" effort, Death Dance begins with a helpful crib sheet ("Underground for Dummies") that suggests newcomers are welcome here, too, and maybe even desired. When he delivers "You wanna promo copy buddy/You can download the tracks," it's not entirely clear whether he would have designed the world this way. He's cool with it, though, and declares "This is hip-hop for the people/Stop calling it emo," as if he's done with being pigeonholed, sick of being sold only to those "in the know." And really, why shouldn't he be? Any audience can appreciate the greatness of the organic blues beat producer Buck 65 lays on "Got Up This Morning." Sage's lyrics on the cut are equally smart and creative, with literary references thrown about in a flirty conversation between the protagonist and a sultry siren who just might be the Devil ("She asked 'What would Bukowski do?'/Don't go there!/He would make you his Mom"). Brilliant underground hip-hop producers Odd Nosdam ("Underground for Dummies") and Alias ("Keep Moving") both turn in great constructions, and composer/trumpeter/odd choice Mark Isham offers two elegant and sinister tracks ("Good Fashion" and "Waterline") that prove why he's the one who the film industry calls when they want slick 21st century noir. The truly personal numbers that close the album come after earning the listener's trust and patience, and the Isham/Francis connection comes from work for Hollywood, more signs that the man is ready to connect. In the end, the claim "his most personal record to date" becomes as important as "the one with the most black on the cover" or "the one with the most producers." What matters is that Death Dance works hard to immerse any listener in another world where angst, darkness, dark humor, ambition, the itch to create, and the hunger for all things creative demand attention. That this is the world in Sage's head is secondary.
Sage Francis
Human the Death Dance
[Epitaph; 2007]
Rating: 7.9
With 2005's A Healthy Distrust, Sage Francis ditched introspection, the meat and potatoes of his earlier work, for fire-breathing activism. And who could blame him? A president he didn't vote for had just won another four years-- missteps into lecturing could be forgiven. The old Francis, the quirky, quipping storyteller, triumphantly returns on Human the Death Dance, his second record on Epitaph, to his unique blend of diaristic, down-to-earth meditations, eerie soundscapes, and loopy abstraction.
Not that an herbivorous slam poet from Rhode Island, to put it frankly, would be expected to drop politics altogether. The personal is especially political on "Underground for Dummies", a biting, but never bitter, record of Francis's long tango with the music industry. And he's losing patience with the close-mindedness within his own art form: "This is hip-hop for the people/ Stop callin' it emo!" Francis sees nonsense everywhere. On "Midgets and Giants", he lampoons subcultural bullshit across the board, from the doe-eyed disciples of 8 Mile ("a promotional tool, shithead/But not for you, shithead") to the sexed-up and curiously alive Suicide Girls.
And the mission to broaden hip-hop's palette (and palate) presses on behind the curtain, where usual suspects-- Sixtoo, Alias, Reanimator-- switch off with other outer-rim stars. cLOUDEAD's Odd Nosdam blends ghostly atmospherics and Golden Age breakbeats on the opener, while composer Mark Isham lends a swank, silver-screen drama to "Good Fashion". Isham's tender union of piano, harp, and strings nearly steals the show on "Water Line", a spoken-word diatribe on not doing your job, and not just in New Orleans.
"Got Up This Morning" sways to Buck 65's high-tech confederacy of fiddles and harmonica, before Francis' female companion poses that timeless question: What would Bukowski do? Pendulums may swing and paradigms might shift, but you can always count on underground hip-hop for those endearingly nerdy, English-major moments. If you decode Jolie Holland's dreamy sighs on "Black Out on White Night", rumor has it you'll hear Dante.
As you circle deeper into the record, whispers of the old confessionalism get louder and louder. "Going Back to Rehab" weaves allusions to the greats, Nas and Biggie, into a six-minute tapestry that encompasses everything great about Sage Francis's strongest album to date: Its neon rainbow of tones and moods, the almost telepathic harmony between producer and rapper, the riveting fault-line tiptoe between memoir and manifesto.
-Roque Strew, May 11, 2007
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