For the longest time, Diplo’s role as a producer has been steeped in importing, curating, and reconfiguring global dance sounds from favelas to shantytowns to the projects. That approach has been depicted as everything from transcendent, no-borders futurism to an exploitative colonialist ripoff, but most of his fans seem most interested in how much a given track bumps. The critical narrative shifted from Diplo as hipster scavenger to Diplo as arena-ready body-mover on the basis of a pop breakthrough that came through Major Lazer’s “Pon de Floor”. In its original context, it was the centerpiece of an album cross-examined for appropriating dancehall culture and West Indian identity for a dayglo cartoon caricature. Then Beyoncé got ahold of it for “Run the World (Girls)”, Diplo’s name started showing up in the credits of Chris Brown and Snoop Lion albums, the appropriation concerns shifted towards the trap scene, and the authenticity questions gradually quieted down.
There's still something at stake here, however, especially with the delayed, fine-tuned and much-awaited second Major Lazer album finally arriving. At this point, the project name is based more around the elaboration on one producer's vision than a group of familiar collaborators, as Switch and Skerrit Bwoy haven't made the transition from Guns Don't Kill People -- Lazers Do to Free the Universe for the respective reasons of creative differences and religious epiphany. So it's largely Diplo's statement, albeit with a new set of cohorts in Trinidad-born Jillionaire and Black Chiney's Miami-via-Jamaica sound system member Walshy Fire. So Major Lazer's fusion of club music scenes from both Europe and the Caribbean gains a couple new critical sources of firsthand input, and there's more of an opportunity for that sound to be directly informed by artists closer to the source.
The production's by far the strongest link on Free the Universe. Maybe it's not as up-front and audacious as it was on the all-stops overload of Guns Don't Kill People. But it's to-the-point and danceable when it's inclined to aim that way, and most of it's bound to sound commanding through massive stacks of amps. Percussion clatters through on jam-packed snare-clap-kick-hat drum patterns even before the ankle-breaking bass kicks in, while trilling digital chords inevitably steer towards all-caps siren blares. Not all of it's so energetic and frenetic; the foggy, calliope-and-guitar rocksteady underpinnings of "Get Free" and the sweet Studio One haze of "Jessica" calm the proceedings without killing momentum. A few moments feel like gratuitous, instantly-dated trend-grabs, like when the trance-jungle feints of Flux Pavilion collaboration "Jah No Partial" displaces the mood with pro forma arenastep and DROPS THE BASS directly into a puddle of sludge. Yet there's enough here to satisfy the who-cares-crank-that-shit impulse that aptly soundtracks good times with recreational substances.
But there's a different set of problems here -- just look at everybody who shows up with a "ft." attached. Fittingly enough, there are a bunch of tracks featuring dancehall icons ranging from Beenie Man to Shaggy to Johnny Osborne. But there are also sincere, zero-slackness ballads featuring indie stars like Ezra Koenig and Amber Coffman. There is also a guest spot from Peaches. And Wyclef. And a teamup that includes Bruno Mars and Tyga. The biggest digression from the dancehall-indebted singer/toaster lineup on Guns Don't Kill People was Santigold, far from a sore thumb considering her definition-ducking versatility as a singer. This time around, she's the closest there is to a direct link from that last album's indie-electro soundclash to this one's omnidirectional crossover bid. And her voice kicks off what turns out to be a sadly disjointed experience: there's an awkward fake patois on what seems like every other track, and the overstuffed lineup dislodges any hopes of a unified musical statement.
All that there's left to do is examine the components and try to figure out what went haywire. "Wind Up", "Watch Out for This", and "Mashup the Dance" deliver the goods when the likes of Elephant Man, Busy Signal or Ward 21 put in their work and keep the energy levels up. But splitting the difference between dancehall and moombahton doesn't always create a distinct new whole that plays up both genres' bounce-ready qualities. The indie names fare OK, even if they sometimes veer towards caricature -- Coffman's dippy Tarzan yells and Koenig's wobbly attempt at Junior Murvin-gone-lover's rock falsetto on the aforementioned "Get Free" and "Jessica" make them seem a little more arch than they actually mean to be. And a few cuts that stray away from either of those categories turn out laughable: Peaches undercutting an authoritatively cocky Timberlee on the new wavey "Scare Me" by dropping a twerp-twerk verse that tries to make a sex-fluids double-entendre based around WikiLeaks, Wyclef's motivational-poster platitudes trying to pass for a hook on (yes) "Reach for the Stars" (eesh), and Tyga chortling out maybe the most shut-the-fuck-up verse of the year on "Bubble Butt" ("Damn, bitch, talk much?/I don't want interviews/Ha! I'm tryin' ta get into you/then make you my enemy").
All those hitches, gaffes and odd little diversions add up. A no-brainer, easy-to-enjoy production slate gets knocked around by its flaws just enough that even the minor, acquired-taste touches seem like just another bad decision. (I don't know whether the filter that briefly makes Shaggy's voice sound like Meatwad on "Keep Cool" would sound iconoclastic and funny on a better album, rather than just a baffling flash of annoyance on this one, but there's no point wondering now.) If anybody actually expected this to stink before hearing it, even considering the odd assemblage of cameos here, they're probably more cynical than I am. But it's a bringdown that what should've been a more faithful yet adventurous transition into a new phase for Major Lazer winds up sounding like so much less than the sum of its parts.
