Rasta reggae poet/ vocalist BENJAMIN ZEPHANIAH has previously been renowned for making highly-regarded roots albums like "Dub Ranting" and "Free South Africa", but - after a fortuitous meeting with Underworld's Carl Hyde led him to being introduced to producer Trevor Morais - decided a change of tack was required when making his new album "Naked."
Beautifully housed in an all-white book-style sleeve featuring the lyrics and some provocative-yet-witty insert artwork from influential graffiti artist Banksy, "Naked" bears all the hallmarks of an expensive, major league release, especially when you take a glance over the all-star list of collaborators. Let's see: Phil Palmer (Eric Clapton), Jamie West-Oram (The Fixx, Tina Turner), tabla player Aref Durvesh (Sting, Jeff Beck), Rick Smith (Underworld), Dennis Bovell (The Slits, The Clash, Edwyn Collins) and, er, Howard Jones. Yes, THAT Howard Jones. What gives? Is this well-respected muso hell we've descended into or what?
Actually, the answer to that question mostly falls into the 'or what' category, because "Naked" is as much a testiment to Trevor Morais' star-studded address book as much as anything else, for - despite its' expensive appearance - the album was put together with little or no budget at Morais' Spanish studio, with friends and musicians dropping by to add parts, often merely because Morais invited them. In itself, such altruism is rare, though it must be said that the end results are a little gnarly and uneven, if harbouring flashes of genius.
The musical backdrop itself is part of the problem. In the main, the canvas Morais presents to Benjamin Zephaniah is a tres modern electro-ragga sound, featuring far more in the way of bleeps, bloops and electro frippery than it does the expected dubbed-out lugubriousness. This is something of a double-edged sword, because while this approach sometimes bears fruit (like on the title track which wheels out scurrying electro pulses akin to Brian Eno and David Byrne's "My Life In The Bush Of Ghosts" and gives Zephaniah the perfect, tense backdrop for his lyrical invective), it can also sound forced and unnatural.
Tracks like "Rong Radio Station" and "Our Fathers" are good examples of this malaise. The former is a very busy, Goldie-cum-LTJ Bukem-style junglist exercise which certainly makes its' anti-establishment point eloquently (sample lyric: "I really did believe that terrorism couldn't be done by governments/ Not our government, not white governments") and is a hell of a rant, but a bitch to sit through more than a couple of times. Ditto "Our Fathers", which allies more frenetic junglist beats to its' spicy rhythmic stew, but ends up sounding simply shoe-horned. In fairness, mind, Morais isn't always at fault. On "Touch"'s plea for respecting the mind as well as the body, Benjamin probably thinks he sounds smoochy and restrained, while to these ears he merely sounds awkward and frustrated.
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Fortunately, when Zephaniah and Morais relax a little, things perk up somewhat. "Homesick"s still sadly-resonant black man wrongly imprisoned scenario is set to a drifting and moody musical vehicle that only increases its' poignancy, while the murky and nefarious Big Brother-style content of "Slow Motion" is all the more tense and impressive because Benjamin utilises a less-is-more approach, rather than his usual dictionary-swallowing rant. Mind you, the hilarious "Superstar" - written from the point of view of the lonely Global success - shows him at his lyrically dextrous best, coming on like a cross between Linton Kwesi Johnson, John Cooper Clarke and Leigh Stephen Kenny and spewing out witty asides like "I'd like to kill my personal trainer, but I'm so high up in the charts/ And I'm told I can do no wrong, and the price of plastic surgery means even my plastic surgeon is a star." Even the hardest heart can't deny a certain amusement at this one.
Arguably the best track, though, is "Responsible". It's got delicious, melody-enhancing female backing vocals and an older'n'wiser message ("You can't blame all you sins on the ghetto/ so don't size me up, let us rise up") that we can all relate to, but - significantly - is allied to a more traditional, Jamaican-style lope that's a natural for Zephaniah, and accordingly fashions him a winning track in the process.
And therein lies the dilemma, if not the rub exactly. While you can't but encourage an artist who's keen to push forward sonically and willing to bring in a fresh producer who's hungry to help him in such a quest, it seems too often here Benjamin Zephaniah has allowed himself to be made over in someone else's image. "Naked" is by no means the emperor's new clothes, and does exhibit some likeable traits en route, but by and large ends up making a big, uncomfortable noise when it realises its' been exposed to genres it can't harness properly.
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