The EP format isn't where artists tend to make big statements, with the possible asterisk-style exception of Robyn (whose Body Talk series eventually resulted in a proper, long-playing release anyway). Instead, a short-form release suggests anxious label-heads putting pressure on an artist to release something, anything, as soon as possible. But that's not at all the aura projected by this spellbinding, 16-minute, six-track sequence from Thundercat—an artist who has been in the public eye plenty this year already, thanks to prominent spots on albums by Kendrick Lamar and Kamasi Washington. While riding that wave, it's hard to imagine members of Flying Lotus' Brainfeeder imprint saying "We need something from you right this second," which leaves us with an alternative explanation: namely, that the brief duration of The Beyond / Where the Giants Roam (he's calling it a "mini-album," which is the euphemism du jour for EPs) is exactly the statement the bassist-singer-composer wanted to make at this moment.
The songs here are airy, and often provisional-feeling, while Thundercat's lyrics reliably invoke death, mourning, and vulnerability. The mini-album opens with an ethereal, vocal-led invocation entitled "Hard Times", and follows this up with a track called "Song for the Dead", which labors under some muffled-sounding percussion for most of its running time before stumbling into a clearer sonic field, near its conclusion. Every composition seems relentlessly aware of its own mortality. The greatest comfort on offer tends to be the nimble power of Thundercat's virtuoso technique on his main axe. That instantly recognizable, feather-touch electric bass sound of his is potent, but also gossamer-delicate in a way that reinforces the mini-album's themes of impermanence.
Even when Thundercat comes up with with a monster, single-worthy groove, as on "Them Changes"—the interlocking bass parts of which recall the supple funk Thundercat has contributed to Erykah Badu's New Amerykah series—he does not allow himself a rousing chorus, instead reverting to the wordless vowel-mewling of the mini-album's initial, more downtrodden tracks. He even fades the track into silence just as Washington starts a saxophone solo. One images that there's an extended "Them Changes" sitting in a folder on Thundercat's computer—though if so, it's obvious how giving listeners an epic version of this song might have thoroughly disrupted the equilibrium of a release as reflective as this one. Likewise, Herbie Hancock's keyboard cameo—which comes during "Lone Wolf and Cub"—isn't the place for guest-star grandstanding. (Though he sounds good.)
In a series of Twitter messages posted shortly after this mini-album's release, Thundercat explained that he is continuing to come to terms with the "insanely brutal" deaths of some close friends, while also attempting to process the larger-scale racist injustices that still occur with disheartening regularity. In the final, almost-sunny-sounding track (over some atypically bright keyboard tones), the narrator encounters a strange but comforting entity. It soundslike Thundercat finds the figure's presence to be a welcome one—though tellingly, still has to ask "can you tell me who you are?" For those of us also muddling through various grim realities, it's tempting to think of this mysterious and unassuming release—which appeared with little advance notice—along similar terms. As it doesn't behave like many other recordings out in the world, you're at first blush tempted to ask what it's up to, and what it wants. But then the figure puts its arms around you, and you start to feel a bit better, even without a full explanation of what's going on. That's more than plenty of full-length records achieve.
