Kelis Was Here is a study in contradictions and a difficult nut to crack, an album whose appeals seem straightforward and yet are curiously hard to pin down. Having abandoned the Neptunes entirely in favour of a revolving cast of collaborators (Scott Storch, Will.I.Am, Shondrae, Raphael Saadiq), the r&b singer who proudly describes herself as “the first girl to scream on a track” rifles through a myriad of styles over the course of 70 minutes, haphazardly throwing everything at the wall, 1990s Prince album style. It's simultaneously exhaustive and exhausting: A struggle to digest in one sitting, but curiously accommodating to repeat listening. In this, the record is reminiscent of Kelis's 2001 album, Wanderland, which was so devoid of obvious hits it wasn't even released in the U.S.
Also like Wanderland, Kelis's latest album is formally varied but feels consistent-- even monochrome in parts. She remains indebted to the Neptunes' production nous even in their absence, regularly adorning herself with the sort of production touches one would expect from the duo. But where the Neptunes gave Kelis consistency by always drawing attention to their own unmistakable sound, this album's consistency is a direct result of its coolly competent eclecticism, with both Kelis and her producers trying to fade, chameleon-like, into the fabric of the songs. With the oddball charisma toned down and the lens zooming in on Kelis' melisma-adverse vocals, one is left with the sense that all of these songs could be bigger and more distinct, but it's hard to pinpoint how exactly. This drawback is also ultimately the album's draw: Given time to settle in, many of these songs are among Kelis's most charming, ingratiating themselves with surprising ease.
It seems strange to say that this album feels understated, as Kelis is going in more directions than ever before, and pushing herself harder in the process: It's impossible to reconcile the grill fetishism and rudimentary beats of first single and opener “Bossy” with the extended Spanish guitar jam of closer “Have a Nice Day”. We witness the singer at her most deliberately generic (the grinding club banger “What's That Right There”) and her most perversely far out (the breezy nu-jazz and flower-child rapping of “Circus”, which oddly reminds me of 4 Hero and Ursula Rucker's “Time”); her most brazenly confronting (the urgent and almost crude “Blindfold Me”) and her most winsomely sentimental (the Southern fried motivational anthem “Lil' Star”).
Indeed, Kelis frequently seems hellbent on sounding like anyone but herself: The shouty glam shuffle of “I Don't Think So” could be a lost Rachel Stevens single, while the spare quasi-dancehall thud and heavy petting raps of “Aw S***!” owes more than a bit to Missy Elliott. Content to play dress-ups, Kelis alternates between her usual throaty, multi-tracked hum hovering around about five notes, and whatever vocal style she thinks will fit the mood. It's the moments when Kelis slips back into herself that give this album not only an air of comforting familiarity but all of its most magical moments: Kelis who sounds both astonished and drained on the airy love song “Living Proof”; Kelis who tries to be menacing but just sounds goofy when she promises “Keep my name out your mouth/ I'll keep my foot out your gut” on bonus track “Fuck Them Bitches”; Kelis who brilliantly allows “I'm not trying to wear the pants/ They fit you right” on the respect-hungry “Appreciate Me”, a mournful choir cheering on her heartsick moan. No sane r&b singer would risk it; who else could it be?
