Alicia Keys has always seemed more substantial than your average R&B popstrel. She’s published poetry. She’s as familiar with Chopin as she is with D’Angelo. Her press release describes her as ‘the consumate musician, actress, entrepreneur, humanitarian and philanthropist’, which prompts relief that, at last, R&B has found its Mother Teresa.
This aspirational weightiness is a decidedly mixed blessing. Keys’ apparent desire to posit herself as a musical and, dare we say, philosophical heavyweight mainly manifests itself in a surfeit of vocally virtuosic but slightly generic balladry. It’s as if she’s attempted to be this generation’s Aretha Franklin but had to settle for Gladys Knight.
Certainly not an ignominious place to end up but given her lofty ambitions, not quite enough.Tellingly, the album comes alive during its breezier, poppier moments. ‘Wreckless Love’ skips along skittishly and ‘Teenage Love Affair’ offers playful self-awareness instead of portentous bluster. At her best, Keys offers a more organic take on the jerky electro-soul of the likes of Amerie. She shouldn’t be afraid to play to her strengths.
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