“Humanz” and the Humanity of Fandom
Despite the familiar dynamic between absurdity and seriousness, Gorillaz’ latest work signals a new trajectory that fans might find hard to accept.
In the days that preceded the release of Damon Albarn’s fifth full length Gorillaz album, Humanz, I found myself asking the question, “What is a Gorillaz album?”
I scanned my memory for clues as to how the virtual band’s 2005 sophomore record, Demon Days, magnetized my middle school affinities for both absurdity and sincere emotionality, or how a goofy track like “Superfast Jellyfish” could seamlessly flow into a gentle, yet cathartic gem like “Empire Ants” from Plastic Beach. A pattern became clear: Gorillaz have routinely struck an inimitable balance between the toyish and the beautiful. This dynamic presents itself in both lyricism and musicality, as well as in Albarn’s ensemble of real-life guest artists — like Snoop Dogg, Lou Reed, and Shaun Ryder — who are as mythic and cartoonish as 2-D himself.
Humanz establishes its balance only seconds in, with the chorus to “Ascension,” energetically delivered by rapper Vince Staples: “The sky’s falling baby / Drop that ass ‘fore it crash.” Throughout the album, Gorillaz and their team of all-star features share an intense anxiety about the state of humanity that can only be met with an equally intense plea to get this goddam party started.
Unfortunately, this line from “Ascension”, repeated ad nauseum, becomes a bit irritating by the second chorus. A major weakness of the album is a characteristic wackiness run afoul, when the hooks become overused or just plainly annoying. For instance, “Momentz (ft. De La Soul)” is an aimless song abound with incongruent vocals and a sporadically pounding 1–2 beat, all while lacking the catchy melody of equally goofy tracks like “White Light” from Demon Days.
The shortfalls of “Momentz,” however, highlight the successes of the following track, “Submission (ft. Danny Brown & Kelela).” As the album’s seventh track, “Submission” embodies the quintessential Gorillaz’ sound, or at least what a long-time fan searches for in every Gorillaz release. Kelela’s vocals open with an effortless grace that only reach when the lyrics call them too; they rise with the lines, “Now you’re not around / But I hope you see,” grabbing our attention before declaring her unwavering love. All the while, Albarn’s arrangement of a groovy synth bass backed by arcade bleeps complements the beauty of Kelela’s melody with a quirkiness that only Gorillaz can craft. A frenetic performance from Detroit rapper Danny Brown in the bridge seals the deal. Brown — whose own cartoonishness rivals Snoop Dogg’s and Shaun Ryder’s — enlivens the otherwise unusually poppy tune with his trademark squawky delivery and inward-searching lyricism.
For several tracks on Humanz, Albarn employs his usual instrumentation for beats objectively suitable for modern pop and hip hop radio. Writer/comedian Demi Adejuyigbe stated it concisely:
The singles and standout tracks from the album certainly support this claim — I’m talking about “Saturn Barz,” “Andromeda,” “Let Me Out” — and slightly disappoint the lifelong Gorillaz fan in me. While it’s cool to think that the quirky beats Albarn has crafted over five albums could have popular appeal (as they did with smash hit “Feel Good Inc.” 12 years ago), that new dynamic would make Gorillaz the feature as opposed to the main artist. The formula “<song title> feat. Gorillaz” would shift the band from the limelight into the background.
As a band ages, however, sometimes stepping into the background is the only means of artistic survival. Is that the fate of Gorillaz? While the signs are there, it hurts for me to accept. I’ve been an avid listener and imitator of Gorillaz for nearly half of my life, and their morphing identity has taught me a lot about the healthy life of a fan.
Once a band stops catering to you, the impulse is to feel jilted. It may seem that their unique sound has been compromised, or that your tastes have been disregarded in order to appeal to a larger audience. But the true joy of fandom is watching an artist change, either minutely or extremely. In that process, you learn who they are, why you still love or only used to love them.
When you give it a chance, you learn more about yourself too. Remember who you once were — that kid who saw their face reflected in a mirror of sound and poetry, a mirror that validated your experience. Has that reflection been muddied? Has it turned into a window, reflecting only a faint, translucent ghost of your younger self? Dig into the disappointment, confusion, or sense of betrayal and find its source. It is as much rooted in your own personal change as it is in the artist’s.
You can stream the album here:
