I know, I know. We hate it when our friends become successful. That's Mike Skinner's built-in defense against anyone who doesn't receive this, his third full-length record, with the same unquestioning enthusiasm that greeted 2002's Original Pirate Material and 2004's A Grand Don't Come for Free. With the benefit of hindsight, those records feel markedly more different from each other than they did originally: the former a blunted jubilee of skits, stoned tangents, unrumpled beatmaking, and catalogued moodswings that was elegantly and instructively produced-- practically the chav Parklife; the latter a much darker record with braver production choices, denser verbiage, and a central narrative that only worked because Skinner had the charisma to see it through.
It is Skinner's ability to exponentially increase the on-paper value of an ordinary idea by garnishing it with the right details that is his main strength and the core component of what he does. That's why, despite the fact that the The Hardest Way to Make an Easy Living is devoted to one of the most tedious and overdone conceits in autobiographical storytelling-- that of fame and its attendent trappings-- most of us went into this third outing with good reason for hope, or at the least, cautious optimism.
So yeah, this is his blow-up record, the first music he's made knowing he's a truly bankable commodity, but instead of the celebratory club tracks to which he's entitled, we're tasked to sort through the dark insides of Skinner's post-fame headspace, which is fluctuating almost exclusively between yammering neuroses and smug self-aggrandizement. This is, by some distance, his most interior record. Where the first two found him clambering for closer contact with the people around him, The Hardest Way to Make an Easy Living takes place almost entirely in his own head, where's he either engaged in a struggle to stay on the right side of sanity (and possibly sobriety) or to keep his misanthropy contained.
In the case of the latter, he is largely unsuccessful-- one of the most unlikable and disappointing things about Skinner Mk 2006 is that he seems to regard nearly everyone in the ouside world as either his prey or his inferior. "War of the Sexes" has Skinner-- a man who once agonized over a hair twirl for a whole song-- sermonizing on the fine art of sarging a "hostile lamb" before unfunnily concluding with a reminder not to get too drunk, because "people who get hammered don't get to nail." In "Can't Con an Honest John", he smarmily reprises a classic grift: "Using this technique/ You're going to take all this man's money/ But you're not going to care/ Cause he's going to fucking deserve it." And over the farting keys of "Memento Mori", perhaps the smuggest and laziest thing he's ever released, Skinner flaunts his ignorance with a flip of the billfold: "Memento Mori, Memento Mori/ It's Latin and it says we must all die/ But I tried it for a while and it's a load of boring shite/ So I buy buy buy/ Bye bye."
Worse yet, the album's requisite feelgooders-- the sappy paean to fidelity, "All Goes Out the Window", and the strangely unmoving blues-gospel tribute to his deceased father, "Never Went to Church"-- register as lyrically barren and a little strained. In all these moments, he seems both alienated and alienating, miles removed from his former warmth. Even his jokes are uncharacteristically spotty; a few punchlines are so leaden you feel like you're being shouted into a corner by someone who's had about six lines too many.
But here's the rub. Not only are there scattered moments of lyrical brilliance on The Hardest Way, but from a producerly standpoint, it's probably Skinner's most accomplished and interesting record yet. Opener "Pranging Out" is a highlight in both columns-- over a punchy, full-bodied, and garage-touched beat, Skinner details with brutal candor the downswing of a particularly ugly drug binge: "Carelessly racking out prang just to handle the fear/ I do a line but then panic and feel a bit prangy/ So I glug Marlon from the bottle to ease off the panic/ Then when it starts wearing off I just feel a bit sad." On the baroque title track, Skinner outlines the machinations of the business side of stardom to dizzying effect; misunderstood lead single "When You Wasn't Famous" marries a spell of Page Six-rumormongering with a mesmerizing marching beat that crumbles and woozes with a virtuoso touch; and the genuinely funny "Two Nations" offers up a cockeyed chord progression and a tongue-in-cheek riposte to Brit-baiting Americans: "Two nations divided by common language/ And about two hundred years of new songs and dances/ But the differences in language are just the bits you got wrong/ Cause we were the ones who invented the language."
The album's frustrating push/pull is neatly articulated with the closing track, "Fake Streets Hats", which intersperses a few choice tour anecdotes with actual recording snippets of backstage exchanges. It's a tantalizing idea executed poorly, and Skinner ultimately ends the track (and hence the album) so abruptly you're left wondering if he doesn't have the odd moment where he regards his audience as potential con victims as well. Yes, there's certainly enough greatness here to preserve the listener's goodwill towards him for another album; the bigger and more interesting question is whether Skinner will be able to reciprocate.
