Santigold - Master of My Make-Believe
Four years ago, Santi White, better known as Santigold, set the bar for pop music for the music industry, especially herself.
Her debut record, “Santogold”, featured not just several of its year’s greatest tracks (“L.E.S. Artistes”, “Shove It”) but shed light on the line between mainstream and indie pop. White fit both molds, using creative freedom associated with indie music and the resources of a mainstream release. Looking back, “Santogold” still holds a place in my heart for making some of the most irresistible pop tunes without having to get weird (i.e. M.I.A., Lady Gaga).
Despite previous efforts, there wasn’t specifically any tension for her latest album: “Master of My Make-Believe”. As far as anybody was concerned, listeners were well aware of her creative standards. Looking her track record, there couldn’t possibly be anything wrong with any of White’s future work. Yet, “Master of My Make-Believe” succumbs to the worst complaint pop music could get: it’s boring.
Astonishingly so, “Master of My Make-Believe” barely rises to the occasion of its agenda and, frankly, lacks any sincere artistic efforts. It’s not that this LP has anything sour or tracks that stick out like sore thumbs, “Master of My Make-Believe” barely throws any hooks or punches that calling it a ‘snore-fest’ wouldn’t be entirely inaccurate. Four years ago, Santigold would walk in your door and kick-start the party into one of the best nights of your summer. Here in 2012 and Santi’s in the corner of the party with a red cup at hand, not particularly interested in socializing.
I can’t even get excited for the lead tracks: “Go!” and “Disparate Youth”. Despite their positive reception, all I’m left doing for three to four minutes is looking for something to impress me with. The weight of this album gets worse as songs begin clumping together; nothing prominent grabbing my attention or inspiring repeated listens. I wouldn’t be as indifferent or saddened had “Master of My Make-Believe” came from a newcomer artist, but this was freaking Santigold. All we’ve received is a lousy excuse of the same ingredients in “Santogold”, minus any trace of inventiveness. Here is an album destined to be bullied into the dusty corners of record stores and ignored during its week of shelf-time at Best Buy.
This album was not my dad. (3/10)
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