I realize that discussing a hip-hop album through the framework of Norwegian film is the sort of thing that makes music critics so unfailingly popular at parties, but with Time:Line, I just can't help myself. More than any musical event, this record reminds me of a scene from the recently released Reprise: In the movie, seeking CPR for a flatlining relationship, a near-catatonically depressed author tries to replicate minute-by-minute a trip to Paris with his girlfriend that found the two at their happiest-- unsurprisingly, it becomes a sad run through the motions that only illustrates more vividly that the magic's gone. If you've followed Dutch producer Nicolay (currently based in North Carolina) with any sort of interest, you see where I'm going with this. He introduced himself as part of Foreign Exchange on 2004's Connected, a collaboration with rapper Phonte of Little Brother that was so flush with natural warmth and humanity that not even Joe Scudda could fuck up the good vibes.
While Nicolay's been active to a certain extent since then, an admirable desire to avoid repetition has led to mixed results (to be fair, the same could be said for Little Brother), which is why Time:Line is likely to raise eyebrows in concept alone. Once again, he's done a record completely over the internet by offering up heaping cups of latte-rap froth to an MC that's more southern in locality (Houston to be exact) than mentality. But while Connected is a tough standard for anyone to meet, by trying to revisit it, Nic and Kay only make it easier to figure out what goes wrong where the precedent went right.
At the very least, Nicolay's become a more skilled and versatile producer over the years, even if he's slowly but surely eddying away from what can be considered a hip-hop mindset. If there was any criticism that could be lobbed his way before, it was in how his sun-smeared soul samples tended to bleed into each other, but Time:Line aims for the headphones with tracks that are more overt with their details. Nicolay's clearly pushing his game into a higher tax bracket-- the intro jacks a jumpy double-time juke in search of those Gnarls Barkley dollars (or, to a lesser extent, "Body Baby"), while "Through The Wind" is a dead-on approximation of Hall & Oates' stair-step electric piano. "The Gunshot" even manages to latch a spaghetti western riff to dancehall scatting (Rasta/Pasta?) without being too showy or mismatched. It's all expertly stitched together with a continuous flow, and as an instrumental showcase, it's proof enough that Nicolay could have a bright future as a Soulquarian.
But here, we see more of a mismatch than a true partnership like Connected, where Nicolay's occasional soft spot for cheese mellowed the tannins in Phonte's sour grapes. Here, the duo tries to act like they're saving hip-hop from itself by offering up tracks that wouldn't raise an eyebrow on a Joe or Donnell Jones LP. Befitting someone who vocally resembles fellow good sport Consequence, Kay just sounds happy to be riding out the quiet storm, which unfortunately is at its worst when it tries to remind you of everything you're trying to forget about "conscious rap"-- as the hook in "What We Live" obnoxiously puts it, these guys are bringing "the real with no bling to match."
Yes, I realize the hornet's nest I'm sticking my hand into, particularly with how this site often suffers accusations of being covert PR ops for any number of "socially irresponsible" MCs. But Time:Line often stumbles for the same reason a Rick Ross record does: if you're going to work with the same old tired subjects, at the very least, don't fall back on the same old satisfactory signifiers. Kay's no amateur, but due to a lack of memorable wordplay or stories (as a term for drunkenness, "tight eyes" gets stashed into the "bong bong"/"boughetto" school of failed catchphrases), sometimes it's hard to hear something other than the two picking low-hanging fruit. As Kay intones "Sometimes us artists, entertainers, get blinded by the lights, and we lose sight of what's real" on "The Lights", it's abundantly clear that he's wielding a blowtorch and it's strawman season. Nearly Bible-thumping in its tsk-tsking, Kay talks down rappers selling millions of records, mistreating their queens and, unable to respond to the pressure, their "best friend's name is coke and [they] put 'em up their nose." Never mind whether it's based on actual experience-- in 2008, it hardly feels based in reality.
Likewise, it's hard to be totally against what "Through The Wind" offers-- shit, if most of us want to relate to more hip-hop on a non-allegorical level, it's probably in our interests to get more tracks about "catching independent flicks as the sun goes down." But why do they always need to be over soft-batch drum taps and overly obtrusive rap&b dudes? Did RZA make "All I Need" any less resonant with his dank chamber production? And of course, the package wouldn't be complete without its jumbled, political-via-spiritual summation speech, here called "I've Seen Rivers", because Kay wants his words to flow like, well, you get the picture.
Which isn't to say that Time:Line is a bad record, just one with an unsteady aim. Too often, it tries to get by on what it's opposed to instead of what it stands for, a gambit with little margin for error if you don't have a viably exciting alternative, or enough trust in the taste of the listener. Thanks to the crumbling infrastructure of major label hip-hop, there aren't many walls left-- Lupe Fiasco sounded great on Bun B's "Swang On Em" and Wale's Mixtape About Nothing seamlessly incorporated the Roots, Lil Wayne, and Elaine Benes. Time:Line is at its best when it's about putting hands in the air instead of pointing fingers-- "Blizzard" is a charming look back at Midwestern youth and "Tight Eyes" is a good-humored ode to substance abuse ("Drinks is free before ten/ But I'm a ghetto nigga so I'm a-drink before I get in"). These moments are sadly rare, and while Time:Line sounds as breezy as a day at the beach, Nicolay and Kay unfortunately spend too much of their time drawing lines in the sand.
