Alt-R&B artists love to evoke turn-of-the-century R&B, albeit a version of it in which everyone was Aaliyah. While Banks, the alt-R&B project of LA singer-songwriter Jillian Banks, seems conceptualized and curated to within an inch of its life, the reality is a couple years of Banks searching for that fit. The list of collaborators on 2013’s London comes off as an attempt to reverse-engineer getting onto BBC's Sound Of list; Goddess did the same for getting onto playlists with the Weeknd. And after some success—including “Beggin for Thread” becoming a minor alternative hit—Altar attempts to do the same. In fact, The Altar has a lot in common with Goddess, including its fatal flaw: its attempts to position Banks as edgy or dangerous, despite all musical evidence to the contrary.
Single “Fuck With Myself” is indicative. The conceit, your basic tale of fuck-the-haters-I’ve-got-self-love-but-ooh-what-kind? (in an interview with Zane Lowe, Banks boasted that it had “so many meanings,” which is weird because the slang has one or two) is so anodyne in 2016 that True Grit kid Hailee Steinfeld's done it with mild bowdlerization. Producer Al Shux (“Drowning,” “Empire State of Mind,” “Wicked Love”) constructs a skeleton of an R&Bass song, the sort of half-there production that’s minimalist in a way that suggests they avoided fleshing out the details. Where Banks might have brought menace to the void, she substitutes vocal gimmicks: stage whispers, clipped runs or, bizarrely, a gulped cadence that suggests she’s either choking through a straw or greeting an approaching cat.
You don’t pull out this many vocal tricks unless you’re compensating for something, and in this case it’s probably Banks’ voice. At best, it evokes Martina Topley-Bird; more often, it evokes Martina Topley-Bird with a bad cold, or that bit in Chicago where Roxie likens Amos’ voice to fixing a carburetor. This wouldn't happen so often if Banks wrote to her voice, but like too many alt-R&B artists she tries to fit her voice to other artists’ cadences and winds up showcasing every weakness. The heavy Drake-reminiscent drone drags down “Haunt”; the title to would-be slow jam “Lovesick” scans a bit too literal, and the quavers-intact Vocodering of “Poltergeist” turns the track into 808s and Pneumonia. The production, while consistently solid, isn’t noteworthy enough to compensate, and while Banks’ lyrics are noteworthy, it’s not in the good way. “Judas” spends more effort name-dropping Banks’ past singles than it does on the metaphor; the last pop song, and inescapable comparison, on this subject was a brash, theologically junk mess, but at least it sounded like its artist actually fucked with Judas, or at least considered the thought. “Gemini Feed” relies on tabloid astrology and a bloodless couple’s gripe of a pre-chorus: “you’re passive-aggressive.” Perhaps it’s the remarkably coincidental timing, but “I smell a clown looking goofy dressed up like a native” would kill any track’s momentum.
The other thing you'll hear Banks’ music described as is “dark pop.” In 2016 this could also mean just about anything, but mostly marketing; Tove Lo, Dua Lipa, and dozens of aspiring pop stars are launching careers on it. At this point it’s possibly an even more flooded market than R&B, yet it’s where Banks sounds the most natural. “Trainwreck” evokes, to great effect, the particular darkness that was all over pop radio in the early ’10s—blown-out vocals, big menacing synth pads, barely concealed panic. The production goes loud, and so does Banks. (It’s no coincidence that here Banks finally starts to sing.) Hitched to the chorus is a sprinting, stopping verse, Banks racing the beat and pausing to emote. On another album this might evoke rap, but it evokes just as much singer-songwriters like Maria Mena, or unlikely Drake collaborator Chantal Kreviazuk, or, more than anything, “Fast As You Can” by Fiona Apple—one of Banks' stated idols.
The track’s a standout, in that it sounds like it’s off an entirely different record. If this were actually the late ’90s, with the industry trends of the time, The Altar would either be R&B via Hot AC—think Jennifer Paige—or an acoustic singer-songwriter project, and there are hints throughout the album that Banks may have had that in mind. “To the Hilt,” save a few Mýa cadences, is a straightforward piano-and-strings ballad. The title telegraphs this a bit much, but “Mother Earth” gets quite close to folk-Americana, wisps of harmonies and all, and Banks' voice serves this material nicely. One wonders what an entire album of this sort of thing would be like. It might be fusty. It would not be particularly on trend. It would not get one tours with the Weeknd. But it might finally let Banks be herself, more than anybody else.
