Album Review: Me'Shell Ndegéocello - Ventriloquism
The idea of the ‘cover song’ is daunting, polarizing, and
can be incredibly difficult to pull off.
As a performer, you have to find the right balance—you want
to bring something new and invigorating to the song. You don’t want to ‘make it
your own,’ but you have to bring the right amount of yourself to it. At the
same time, you don’t want to absolutely butcher it, and you don’t want to wind
up with what amounts to an uninspired, carbon copy of the original.
It’s a delicate and fine line to tread.
If you recognize the name Me'Shell Ndegéocello, part of me
suspects it’s because of a) her idiosyncratic 1993 single “If That’s Your
Boyfriend (He Wasn’t Last Night)” or b) because of her memorable guest spot on
John Mellencamp’s over of “Wild Night.”
But maybe I should give you more credit. Perhaps you’ve been
following her career over the last 25 years, where she’s made mercurial,
genre-defying music that blends soul, hip-hop, jazz, R&B, and funk, among
other styles into a compelling and strange amalgamation—even when she was
signed to a major label for a decade, her output was always artistically
uncompromising.
Arriving four years after her last album, and being touted
as something familiar to seek refuge in during a time ‘so extreme and
overwhelming,’ where there is ‘no satisfactory direction for art or action,’ Ndegéocello’s
Ventriloquism is a collection of 11
cover songs, pulled from artists like Prince, TLC, Sade, and Tina Turner, among
others.
If you strain your eyes a little, you can see the slight through
line that connects these together—not that an album of covers needs to be connected per se. But this
isn’t Ndegéocello taking on the material of one artist, or her doing something
like ‘The Great American Songbook.’ These are, more or less, pop and R&B
hits from the 1980s and 1990s—some of which may be slightly more obscure or eccentric
than others, and Ndegéocello wisely structures the album so that she makes the
most of the marquee name tracks throughout, as opposed to playing her hand too
soon, or saving them until the end.
It’s also the most well known songs on here that Ndegéocello
and her band most dramatically reinterpret, and are among the most successfully
executed on Ventriloquism. Here, they
turn the sultry “Smooth Operator” into something that borders on menacing, or
at the very least, unnerving—hunkering down into a slinking groove that rumbles
with dissonance; and just before that, Ndegéocello strips away the 1980s trappings
of Tina Turner’s “Private Dancer” (written by Mark Knopfler of all people),
turning it into a sparse, acoustic confessional, allowing the sorrow of the
lyrics to become the focus.
She does something similar to TLC’s iconic
“Waterfalls”—unfortunately dropping Lisa “Left Eye” Lopez’s rap from the cover,
however, Ndegéocello turns the song into a somber, though rootsy shuffle.
Probably the best, or at least the most surprising, of this
collection is Ndegéocello’s take on Prince’s “Sometimes it Snows in April,”
taken from the soundtrack to his maligned film, Under The Cherry Moon. There are very few songs like it in Prince’s
canon—deliberately paced and sprawling, it features minimal instrumentation,
and it’s just so fucking sad, which is why it’s an amazing song.
The entire reason I was drawn to listening to Ventriloquism was to hear what Ndegéocello
did with this song, and it doesn’t disappoint. Her version, too, is
deliberately placed, sprawling, and sad—still trying to keep the
instrumentation minimal, but here, the piano that serves as the main instrument
in the original is replaced by an electric guitar. She also adds percussion,
giving an already dark song a dirge-like tempo and feeling.
However, not every track on Ventriloquism is as successful or interesting to listen to in the
way Ndegéocello and her band deconstruct it. It’s not necessarily bad, but a
song like Janet Jackson’s “Funny How Time Flies (When You’re Having Fun)” is
one of the less memorable of this set—though it, much like, “Smooth Operator,”
puts a somewhat ominous spin on a relatively smooth and light-leaning original.
The inclusion of the classic funk track “Atomic Dog,” also
sticks out, and seems drastically out of place among the rest of the songs
included here. An iconic song for George Clinton, it saw a second life a decade
later when sampled by Dr. Dre and Snoop Dogg—once a weird, schizophrenic and
noisy funk slither, here, it’s been turned inward, into an ethereal,
folk-tinged mantra; and it just doesn’t work.
Something worth nothing about Ventriloquism is that Ndegéocello and her band never really let these
songs get away from them, and I think that’s intentional, in an effort to build
tension that is never really released. Her very capable and tight sounding
band—comprised of Chris Bruce on guitar, Abraham Rounds on drums, and Jebin
Bruni on keyboards (also serving as producer)—play with a very noticeable and
calculated reserve.
It makes for an impressive sounding record, sure, thanks in
part too to how it was produced and mixed, but that conservation of energy
throughout never lets Ndegéocello cut loose; though, maybe she’s beyond that
now as an artist, or maybe this collection of songs didn’t need that kind of
energy.
Ventriloquism arrives as the kind of album that isn’t out to earn Ndegéocello some kind of
new set of fans—and by choosing to cover songs from the 1980s and 90s, she’s
catering to listeners who have, more than likely, been following her career
since the beginning. It’s not as exhilarating of a listen as, say, Ndegéocello’s
2002 hip-hop infused Cookie: The Anthropological
Mixtape—which is a strange, often angry, and fascinating experience to say the least.
However, there are rewards to be found within Ventriloquism, a dense record, full of fragmented familiarity, to
soundtrack difficult times.
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