A few weeks ago, in commemoration of its 40th year, the weekly arts and events magazine Time Out issued a well-considered list of 40 "London heroes." Among those named: celebrity chef Jamie Oliver, former two-term mayor Ken Livingstone, artist Damien Hirst, actress Judi Dench, playwright Tom Stoppard, and the Streets' Mike Skinner.
It's not surprising to see Skinner in such company, but his inclusion says more about what he's come to mean to Londoners than it does anything about the quality of his current output. Despite the fact that the Streets' cultural relevance has tapered dramatically in the past few years, he nonetheless remains emblematic of a character and sub-culture that lifelong Londoners love to see reflected back on themselves. Nobody told the story of drug-hazed, middle-class, post-rave Britain quite so definitively, and for that, he'll probably always be adored. It must feel suffocating sometimes.
In 2008, Skinner is neither drug-hazed nor middle-class. As it happens, he also doesn't seem particularly engaged in any kind of personal struggle. There's nary a whiff of the drug-binging, fame-flaunting, and deeply misanthropic character he put forward on 2006's overrated-by-some (sorry about that) The Hardest Way to Make an Easy Living. Instead, he's overcorrected in the other direction: Dig the motivational poster-worthy imagery of the album's campaign (none more flowery than the background image on Skinner's MySpace page, that of footsteps on a sun-dappled beach). And indeed, Everything Is Borrowed finds him in a blissed-out, meditative place: "Just another brother trying to love my son and mother," he raps in "Way of the Dodo". "Providing for my wife is the vibe I'm on in life." To say this is his most adult record would be a severe understatement; this isn't just Skinner a few years wiser, this is Skinner downright happy. It is also-- not coincidentally-- one the most cringe-inducing and condescending lyrical efforts in recent years.
It doesn't give me any great pleasure to reinforce the rockcrit cliché that money, fame, and happiness are inhibitors to great work-- especially not when it comes at the damage of someone as likable as Skinner-- but it's hard to dispute in this case. Without any kind of turmoil to deconstruct, friction to rub up against, or confusion to keep him humble, Skinner-- a gifted storyteller, when he has a story to tell-- reverts to a series of metaphysical parables, all of which are delivered with a from-the-mountaintop richness that belies the paper-thin insights on offer. Take, for example, his deconstruction of sin in "Heaven for the Weather": "What is this 'evil', and who decides this?/ When left to devices, some humans try shit/ This is the reason we should all be tied up?/ We're just normal people exploring our minds." The aforementioned "Way of the Dodo", meanwhile, manages to dramatically lower the bar for environmental calls-to-arms by solemnly informing us-- eight times-- that "it's not earth that's in trouble" but rather "the people that live on it." Worse still is "Alleged Legends", a sophomoric takedown of Western religion that's unintentionally hilariously soundtracked by, er, a sitar. "Some people lead their lives by a little red book," Skinner raps. "The thinking people are thinking that without this book, without these verses, we'd pillage and murder/ But following this red book word for word could lead you to actually pillage and murder/ Could it be so what we think to be right is simply the opinion that survived?" If you think that's bad, wait for the chorus: "Do what you think's right and you will feel alright/ Cause when you're bad you will feel sad."
Everything Is Borrowed's relentless cod-philosophizing and empty moralizing wouldn't be quite so hard to swallow if it were tempered by charm or wit. Unfortunately, there's not much of that on offer; most of Skinner's jokes fall flat, and his one or two observational lyrics ["Never Give In", "I Love You More (Than You Like Me)"] pale in comparison to similar material from the past. Only the grateful and celebratory title track and the delicately arranged "The Strongest Person I Know" manage to turn up lyrical moments befitting their arrangements.
The most maddening thing about Skinner's lyrical crisis is that it's happened in concert with some of the most sophisticated and satisfying musical moments of his career. While Skinner's sampler has taken a backseat to full band arrangements, and his garage, hip-hop, and ska influences have been replaced, sometimes ill-advisedly, with touches of lounge, rock, disco, and soul, he actually acquits himself well within those new parameters. "On the Flip of a Coin" is an unlikely gypsy music/spy theme hybrid that fits together remarkably tidily; "On the Edge of a Cliff" is a slick bit of guitar-led soul that wouldn't sound out of place as a Jay-Z single; "The Strongest Person I Know" is a harp and oboe-led lullaby with a sweet refrain; and album closer "The Escapist", with its swelling horns, rolling percussions and gospel chorus, easily ranks as one of the joyous and most uplifting compositions in his catalogue.
In the end, though, Everything Is Borrowed's musical high points aren't enough to save it from its lyric sheet, and that, going forward, constitutes a real problem for Skinner. Given that he's threatened repeatedly to retire the Streets after five full-length albums, it might be an issue he's already well aware of. Either way, something's got to give; another record of similarly hollow platitudes might be enough to undo his legacy.
