Thundercat
It Is What It Is

It Is What It Is: a hollow tautology. It sounds like surrender to imperfection and the sacrifice of completeness. Or like captatio clementiae for a despicable product, from the shaky mixing (yet again none other than Flying Lotus, the master of Brainfeeder), to the neglected mastering (Daddy Kev), to the inadequate physical support (in the review section on Discogs, complaints abound about warping and various cracks). Perhaps even a contempt: it is what it is, I like it this way, don't piss me off.
All suppositions aside, the mystery will remain surrounding the thing that it is, perhaps the point from which the centrifugal force of this cyclonic album was unleashed, marking the return of Thundercat, the most important bassist of his generation.

As if Drunk (2017, we talked about it here) hadn't already made it clear that Thundercat is deep down a radically idiosyncratic person, anything but friendly towards the public: behind the enticing falsettos; under the guise of a Nintendo/anime/samurai/space cowboy imaginary, which is so kawaii, paired with the somewhat awkward presence of a six-string bass bard.
Capturing attention from the explicit, impressive, and monosyllabic title, Drunk returned the gaze of a crocodile at water's edge; it then disoriented in a kaleidoscope of all colors of black; finally, it assaulted with a Them Changes or a Show You The Way, the perfect hits, cloaking the rest in a mantle of pulsating, rich, elusive bass. Just to leave nothing to easy and serene enjoyment, it spread across four discs, with no alternative.

It Is What It Is is animated by the same chronic idiosyncrasy, a repulsive force fueled by the potential of contradictions. The main one: one would expect a manic care of sound from an album that from the first beats presents itself as heavily produced, in the electronic orchestration of Lost In Space / Great Scott / 22-26 and the virtuosic yet atmospheric fusion of Innerstellar Love, which would comfortably place themselves in a completely Herbie Hancock and Weather Report disco, rejuvenating it; the expectation is constantly unmet, just listen to the glaring compression break between Funny Thing, Overseas, and Dragonball Durag, at the opening of side B, to get the feeling of a poorly curated best of drawing here and there from different decades. And while Dragonball Durag seems to beg for rotation plays with its charming r'n'b, it twists and crumples on itself, never resolves the loop, relegates itself to pure sound rather than achieving song status.
And one would expect a ballad (with a drive) as the ideal follow-up to Innerstellar Love, on the third track, certainly not the up-tempo rush of I Love You Louis Cole chasing the Space sound.
The Thundercat/Bowser of King Of The Hill boasts the participation of Badbadnotgood, only to mar it in a decidedly lo-fi boom bap, the kick on a parallel track: it devours it like a good villain with an enchanting, icy, textbook refrain. I'm king of this castle, I'm king of the hill. Childish Gambino, Steve Arrington, and Steve Lacy are also devoured by the bass on Black Qualls, another potential super single which gambles away any chart ambitions with the mixing. And Kamasi Washington, the king of contemporary be bop, also fades away, ensnared by Thundercat's frenzied phrasing.

And for this frenzied phrasing, one would hope for sound transparency that enhances the exquisite touch, loaded with feel, and different inflections that still betray an unmistakable accent. But even when closest to the heart of his music, Thundercat raises barriers, plays hide-and-seek between an excess of midrange equalization here, and low range there; relentless use of autowah, which is totally outdated; a rear when you'd want it at the front and vice versa; now it's steel on bare wood, now just an electric impulse. As if behind this joyful exhibition of masks lurked a mockery to all the paladins of straight-to-the-amp plug-in Riccardo-ism, to the purists and mannerists, to Joe Dart.
While the vocal lines are imbued with mannerism, his mature falsetto, all the more frivolous and endearing as the material seems to take on a sentimental nature.

We will try to grasp the thing behind the continuous laying of note upon note upon note, to channel the urgency that accidentally generates songs; maybe to capture it as a synthesis of many contradictions: we will be overwhelmed.
Perhaps the thing is a pure will, similar to that which according to some was enough to generate a universe. It might be that Stephen Bruner is expanding his to retreat to the center and close himself like a cat in a box with a gun and poison gas, ten fingers and the bass. What happens inside is a matter of probability, it is what it is, and we are not given to know.