James Blake
Assume Form

THE REVIEW

Given that there is only one race, the human race, within it, it is possible to distinguish many subclasses, or sub-races, to put it briefly. Among the many sub-races that layer human conformity, dividing it into the most diverse and colorful personalities, there are three that fall among the worst: those who buy vinyl, those who read rap reviews on Sentireascoltare, and those who feel the urgent need to explain to people why they like James Blake.

I mean: who cares, right? It's obvious you'd like James Blake's music: it's melodic music, about love, melancholic, soothing. Now, it even has hip-hop beats produced by Metro Boomin, who's kind of the Rudy Zerbi of American rap, so, you know, rest assured that no one gives a damn about your opinion, also because everyone has an opinion on Blake's music, which roughly ranges from it's wonderful to he has a very unique voice.

James Blake touches the piano keys with the sensitivity of a crazed pachyderm, only he doesn't let you realize it. He hides behind a very Brit fringe, shows discretion, but in reality, he has figured out how to fool you all. I have to say that a few years ago, he enlightened me on what the song of solitude emitted by the snow-covered train tracks wrapped in an aseptic and bastard cold was: I will always thank him for that. But now I've understood what he wants to do and what he doesn't want to tell us.

Becoming some kind of accessory for lousy rappers, well, he didn't have to do that. It's kind of like saying you like Kendrick Lamar and believing in it so much that you end up illegally downloading his entire discography: in an instant, without even knowing why, you've become a chronic loser.

Unfortunately, I believe Blake's artistic death will come, and it will have the eyes of an excited and forgotten Fedez who will ask, wallet in hand: “Hi James, how much a sad soul-step elegy costs?”