After five years and as many bands, we know two things for certain about Nick Thorburn: 1) Dude likes to stay busy, and 2) He loves islands. It is in service of both of those quirks that he presents his latest project, Reefer, a partnership with L.A. hip-hop producer Daddy Kev that resulted in a Maui-created, self-titled album. In a year in which Thorburn has already released two albums-- Islands' mediocre sophomore effort and the middling debut of folk duo Human Highway-- one must wonder if the prolific songwriter is spreading himself too thin. But Daddy Kev, who adds a sense of play with his cut-and-paste samples and beat-heavy production, and Hawaii, with its hula melodies and lush vacation living, prove to be an inspiring collaborator and muse, respectively.
Despite Daddy Kev's pedigree, however, Reefer isn't an obvious hip-hop collection; it is more informed by its Polynesian birthplace than a street-wise aesthetic. After all, practically the first word spoken on this collection is "aloha." But despite oozing Don Ho-worthy ukuleles and steel guitar, the album does have one big hip-hop moment: "Crony Island", which, like Island's "Where There's a Will There's a Whalebone", uses Busdriver's flow and some stuttering, heavy beats to infuse jagged edges and a sense of urgency into these languid tropical sounds. Daddy Kev also adds three "interludes" that act like skits on a rap album, breaking up the songs with moments of spoken-word samples set to easy ukulele strums and fuzzy effects.
The rest of the album is just four original songs of Thorburn's whispery warble, minor-key melodies, and cymbal-heavy beats that explore the dark side of tropical getaways-- what, you expected sunny songs from a guy with lyrical obsessions with ghosts and bones?-- and a cover of "Blue Moon" that's spun out of a hollow drum machine beat, ambient twinkles, and Thorburn's surprisingly rich baritone croon. Tracks bleed into one another using the sounds of the surf as a guide, and because crashing waves and dreamy ukulele noodling tie together the songs and interludes, Reefer feels like one long track, a cohesive statement instead of nine separate compositions.
The collection ends with two remixes, which, unfortunately, feel tacked on (perhaps a tactic to keep the short album from being simply an EP?). And though they are nowhere near as good as any of the originals, they at least come from producrtion geniuses Flying Lotus and Dntel. The latter's take on "Hit and Run" (the better of the two) bleeds the track of its slightly sinister organ and melancholic guitar and, instead, leaves a spare, echo-laden shell in their place. And with a robotronic effect added to Thorburn's vocals amidst such a cavernous arrangement, the song suddenly becomes more remote and lonely. It may not be a pleasant listen, but it is an affecting one. "Let It Go", however, which is marked by breezy ukulele and the prettiest, warmest chorus of the album, is, in Flying Lotus' hands, simply a wash of glitchy, ticking-time-bomb beats, spacey videogame effects, and an overall clinical vibe. With barely any vocals or semblance of melody, it bears no resemblance to Reefer's version-- which is perhaps the best song on the album-- but though disappointing, it is an intriguing experiment.
Despite it all, Reefer is Thorburn's best album of the year, and it is so successful because it feels tossed off, like he's not trying so hard. Maybe the islands-obsessed Islands frontman should take more vacations. Although judging from how often the guy likes to work, that's probably unlikely.
