Sole – Live From Rome (2005) (CD) (320 kbps)

Imagine a computer powerful enough to index all possible combinations of a language– a billion monkeys with typewriters, or Borges’s Library of Babel on a hard drive. It’s unnerving that this hypothetical machine would eventually achieve philosophical and scientific breakthroughs simply by chancing across the correct combination of words.

After spending too much time in Live from Rome’s claustrophobic ruins, it’s tempting to imagine the remarkably prolix Sole as this engine of pure linguistic potential. Of course, this machine would produce everything between gibberish and eloquent treatises on ethics; following suit, Sole’s apparent need to say everything produces songs of varied coherence.

Sole’s style is meant to be jarring, and to express the clash of impassioned ideology and over-self-consciousness in its author. Many of us uncomfortably recognize the urge to dismiss our own passionately held political beliefs as clichéd, but Sole misfires when he captures this zeitgeist with too much fidelity. When his puns are intentionally bad, his flow intentionally torpid, his polemics intentionally ham-fisted, it raises questions about how intellectual intent mitigates aesthetic effect when gauging artistic value, but can still seem hokey, lazy, or pedantic. How close can a satire come to what it satirizes without becoming it?

Sole squanders several of Odd Nosdam’s and Alias’ polished beats by overstating his case. “Predictions” is one example, beginning with a series of groaners– “Debbie Gibson will make an electronica comeback/ Ice Cube will go feminist”– that morph into a caricatured anti-capitalist worst-case scenario. It feels dishonest and artificial, which is unfortunate, because Sole in general seems neither of these. These missteps smack of a visionary who’s wandered into an unsound region of his imagination.

But there are plenty of winners here as well. “Self-Inflicted Wounds”, with the comparatively laconic poetry of its lyrics, a liquid flow, and ethereal beat, weaves enchantment from pithy declarations: “I am to rap what Christian is to Indian,” Sole spits with fanged poignancy. And in a typically contrary move, he’s hidden his four best tracks at the end of the album, as if he were ashamed of their immediate, intuitive appeal.

On “Imsotired”, a piano phrase subtly distends as Sole’s distorted flow unapologetically straddles the twitchy drums. “On Martyrdom” finds him wreaking havoc on an elaborate 8-bit bounce track. The wafting spoken word of “Theme” and the straightforward crunk of “Drive by Detournment” ram the point home– Sole’s socialist screeds work well when he raps them like he means them instead of couching them in layers of affected irony. These songs prove him capable of focusing more on visceral appeal and less on stagy esotericism while maintaining his intellectual ambition, and one hopes this album is a steppingstone toward cementing this vision. PITCHFORK.COM

01 – Cheap Entertainment
02 – Self Inflicted Wounds
03 – Predictions
04 – Sin Carne
05 – Entalude
06 – Locust Farm
07 – Every Sigle One Of Us
08 – A Typical
09 – Crisis
10 – Manifesto 232
11 – Banks Of Marble
12 – Atheist Jihad
13 – Dumb This Down
14 – Imsotired
15 – On Martyrdom
16 – Theme
17 – Drive By Detournment

LINK