Shamir is at a crossroads. On the latitude runs Ratchet, released in 2015 to almost universal acclaim, an effervescent and even brooding pop record with monumental hooks and the kind of electronic beats that should be bottled and sold as anti-depressants. On the longitude is his sophomore album Hope, an album he recorded over just one weekend and released for free on Soundcloud, something between an unapologetic creative manifesto and a collection of tossed-off lo-fi bedroom demos.
About this new project, Shamir explains that “from day one, it was clear I was an accidental pop star,” which, in hindsight, rings painfully true. When looking at the video for Ratchet’s lead single, “On the Regular,” what once seemed like an exuberant introduction to a fresh-faced artist now feels slightly uncomfortable—Shamir dances without really acknowledging the camera, and when he does, there's a bashful awkwardness to his movements. It could just be a nervous kid shooting his first video, but Hope’s complete 180-degree turn in sound and mood make his persona in the video seem like a reflection of something deeper.
The album begins with a harsh burst of feedback from a guitar amp, a deliberate signal to check any notions at the door. Before long, Shamir's familiar vocals begin to peek through the mix, raw and brushed with static. The lo-fi direction of Hope isn’t necessarily a surprise for those that have been following Shamir’s career recently. In 2016, he released “Tryna Survive,” a three-minute sun-bleached pop song that sounded, somewhat astonishingly, like something Sheryl Crow would have dropped circa “Soak Up the Sun” only glossed-over with Shamir’s countertenor vocals. It absolutely worked, and pointed towards exciting developments in Shamir’s sound. Unfortunately, “Tryna Survive,” or anything resembling it, is absent from Hope and the album suffers from its few pop hooks being buried under its muddy, un-production. Shamir is not the first artist to fall prey to the trappings of lo-fi—like all “less-is-more” creative strategies, it's deceptively difficult to perfect, and the line between ruggedly effective and amateurishly basic is razor-thin. More often than not, Hope skews toward the latter.
From Larry Levan to Le1f and beyond, electronic dance music has been part of the queer black experience for decades, and it was very easy to slot Shamir and Ratchet into that narrative. It takes nerve to release something like Hope when the weight of your community’s expectations lies on your shoulders, and cheers to Shamir for taking the undeniable risk, even if its product is neither sterling nor altogether listenable. But there’s “Like a Bird,” which glows with a subtle beauty, shiny electro-pop for insomniacs, and makes amazing use of Shamir’s plaintive and untreated vocals. Unlike some of the album’s more experimental tracks, its soft meandering feels apt. “I Fuckin Hate U” has a purposefully Shaggs-like quality, with a skittish drumbeat slip-sliding under an idly plucked guitar. Where certain tracks like the tepid “What Else” peter out after a few minutes, Hope has enough good ideas in it to conceivably pave the way for the new chapter, should that be the road Shamir chooses.
For further context, Hope was recorded on a four-track in a Philadelphia bedroom by someone who played every instrument and produced it themselves. It is the fear of the sophomore album realized as music, released both as a statement of process and purpose. If pop music demands perfection and following a regiment of rules, Hope runs screaming away from all of that, perhaps freeing Shamir to travel uncharted waters.
