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After releasing the NorthtownĀ EP in June of last year, Las Vegas native Shamir dropped his debut LP,Ā Ratchet, this week, an eclectic album from an underground fascination whose tastes cover a wide spectrum of genres and influences. Heās reminiscent of ā90s house music, DFA Records, and Grace Jones, but would be perfectly content to sing only country and folk: Heās a serious Taylor Swift fan who can deliver a knockout rendition of Brandy Clarkās āStripes.ā
Armed with a one-of-a-kind voice, Shamir often reaches an airy, high-pitched register that finds strength in its imperfections. And, as he has often said, his distinct appearance and vocal abilities have been a source for initial confusion and discussion about his identity: āI looked like a little boy,ā he told the New York Timesā Jon Caramanica. However, āwhen everyone else was becoming a man I was becoming a woman,ā he said.
Also to those who keep asking, I have no gender, no sexuality, and no fucks to give ššā
ā Shamir Bailey (@ShamirBailey) March 24, 2015
Gender and sexuality are the first things that everyone wants to talk about when they talk about Shamir.Ā Weāre starved for figures in popular culture who seek to break down the barriers that gender and sexuality arbitrarily impose upon us. Down to the post-gender or post-[insert noun here] level, it isn't immediately clear whereĀ Shamir fits on this spectrum. It really depends on who you read.Ā Pitchfork's Mike Powell offered a word of warning in his recent profile of Shamir: "Attitudes like this leave him open to no small amount of projection: post-gender Shamir, post-genre Shamir, avatar for a hundred causes, evidence for a hundred arguments." Meanwhile, Vulture's Lindsay Zoladz refers to Shamir as a "post-gender star."Ā Caramanica reports that Shamir is pansexual.Ā
Regardless, we can all agree that Shamir and his art are exciting. And,Ā in light of those who failed to recognize his talents beforeĀ Ratchet's producer and Godmode label head, Nick Sylvester, a conversation about Shamir's androgyny is necessary: āEvery other producer I worked with didnāt know what to do with my voice. They were, like, āWhat the fuck is this? What are you doing?āā heĀ told Pigeons & Planes in May of last year. As Powell notes, this confusion was the reason Shamir quit playing country music, despite his obvious talents.
"[Sylvester]Ā just went in with, like, so much confidence and knew," said Shamir.Ā In 2014, after Shamir sent his demos to Sylvester via email, the two immediately found a groove together: āHe loved it. He responded literally the next day after I sent it. He was, like, 'Letās come to New York, make real music.'ā
He never settles on one attitude or sound duringĀ Ratchet, but his style isn't scatterbrained so much as it is exploratory.
Since then, Sylvester has had no trouble finding a place for Shamir to fit in. If fizzy, club-ready sugar bombs, love-it-or-leave-it anthems, and soft-light meditations on heartbreak qualify as āreal music,ā then Ratchet is stuffed with it. Along the way we hear blaring, frantic horns, neatly crafted synth lines, and eerie strings that could easily fit in on a Radiohead record. He never settles on one attitude or sound duringĀ Ratchet, but his style isn't scatterbrained so much as it is exploratory.Ā Both earnest and experimental, Shamir acts like every bit of theĀ 20 years old that he is. The ongoing process that we go through to figure ourselves out during this time is easy to recognize here.
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As such, RatchetĀ is a showcase for the many sides of Shamir's personality. He's ebullient and puckish on "On the Regular," daring anyone to think that they can just come in and out of his life like a complimentary 30-day subscription ("Donāt try me, Iām not a free sample/Step to me and you will be handled"). On āMake a Scene,ā as Shamir readies himself for a night out, heās happy to simply throw his hands up and let it all hang out, a shrug as much as it is an expression of lowered inhibitions: āWhy not go and make a scene?ā Who cares? Whoās watching? InĀ "Hot Mess" we find anĀ alienated and isolated figure who sorts himself out in the club by using dancing as a form of self-prescribed medicine.
Eventually, the technicolorĀ overdrive of the first half ("Vegas" notwithstanding) gives way to a softer, slower comedown. Just as quickly as Shamir builds the beat, he strips it away to show the inevitable result of a long night out: the morning after. Anchored by the hookās deep, swelling pulse, āDemonā is a mid-tempo ode to an estranged loverāthe kind who brings out the worst in you, and vice-versa. Its composition sounds simple, but it allows the few parts to gain greater resonance as a resultāa recurring pattern throughout the album.Ā
Indeed, because of its minimalistĀ aesthetic,Ā Ratchet's rewards may not be immediately obvious upon your first listen, certainly not compared toĀ Northtownās āI Know Itās a Good Thingāāa booming house jam that belongs in any DJ booth. But return visits provide a deeper understanding of this madcap debut. Dark, frenetic, and complicated,Ā RatchetĀ is so thrilling because of its refusal to settle down.