Song Review-Dead Manís Float by Sage Francis produced by Cecil Otter
The new Sage Francis album Copper Gone is the oldest album of 2014. It feels like that desperate essay Jack Kerouac wrote about how the hippies misunderstood his writing. It feels like Neil Young yelling that kids listening to mp3ís canít even hear the music anymore. The album practically bleeds words, every oozing one biting and poetic shouted in a 1989 fuzzy Kangol Def Jam cadence.
I live in Maine and all across the east coast you can gather a lifetime of stories about how much people hate Sage Francis. Iíve seen the brightest poetic minds speak about him as if he were their worst abusive ex. This is not fiction; if you follow him on any form of social media you will see him calling as many people on the carpet as he can in an acidic tone consistent with his musical persona. Am I biased? Iíve watched him come on stage after M.O.P. and make fun of them for no reason; sat and studied Scribble Jam battles on dvd like they were scripture. Iíve danced with him at a merch table, most of all Iíve watched him throw the funk down on many occasions.
You canít find a Sage Francis album that was mailed in, made because it had to be. Heís not an artist digging to find his soul. More like an uncomfortable square peg throwing his tightly clutched soul at you as hard as he can. The chant of Dead Manís Float feels like something he hears in his head, the criticism of those putting the old MC out to pasture (this is confirmed by the countless reflections on his age throughout the album). His cutting wit lashes out at religion ďItís been said faith can move a mountainÖfaith couldnít even move low income families away from biblical floods when they were all drowning,Ē and in doing so leads to something every Sage fan should inscribe somewhere ďShut up when the Captain talks! The secret of the enlightened is to preach against whatever it is they practice in the dark.Ē Copper Gone will hopefully make sure that his career is never misinterpreted. Think of his catalog as one long uncomfortable conversation with your paranoid unkempt uncle and fit this LP somewhere. That talk you never forget where heís so drunk that the poetry of inebriated introspection and inborn distrust of the worlds moving parts merge somehow. It becomes something so farcically untrue and personal but on another level, factual in a way you will never admit.
Wed May 28, 2014 11:28 pm
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