Nearly ten years ago, hip-hop enigma Jay Electronica released an equally singular project that propelled him to a strange status of poetic celebrity. A decade after Act I: Eternal Sunshine (The Pledge), an ingenious reworking of the Jim Carrey film’s drum-free soundtrack, he has yet to release a debut album or a proper follow-up.
Aside from two 2009 singles, Electronica’s rap presence remains shrouded in uncertainty, randomly popping up as featured artist — most surprisingly in a 2013 Mac Miller song — with the frequency of El Niño. In addition to his undebatable lyricism, Electronica wields the power of reservation and aloofness, not giving too much of himself over to anyone. For anyone with lesser talent, the move might form a career of struggle, but for someone with the corresponding talent, it only elevates his work a rare pedestal akin to Kubrick film or a Harper Lee novel.
In recent years, more musicians have broken from the traditional one to three-year album cycle beholden to industry cash cows. Rick Ross, Big Sean, Gucci Mane and J. Cole might release a new album every year or two but it calls into the question of whether it’s to fulfill contracts, shoot for the narcissism of widespread rap supremacy or actually release a developed artistic statement.
For instance, D’Angelo took 14 years to release his sophomore album Black Messiah in 2014, but the result produced two impeccable releases devoid of recycling. Likewise, the Australian plunderphonics The Avalanches released its sophomore album last year after 16 years to same unwavering acclaim.
Other musicians survive without albums completely, like André 3000, who offers a high-quality guest verse on a song every now and then but has not released solo work since the 2007 disbandment of OutKast. Along with Electronica and MC Missy Elliott, he floats in a twilight zone of rap that makes every appearance a blessing rather than a given, impossible without the lyrical clout to back it up.
If these artists were pigeonholed into releasing something every year, it would turn their work into the mediocrity of Call of Duty games or Transformers movies. Making money should only exist as a byproduct of releasing music, not the motivation for which it is made. In today’s music climate, that statement might induce laughter despite its underlying truth. But, with the right sensibilities — like Frank Ocean acquiring the rights to his recordings between albums — artists can earn the agency to move at his or her own developmental pace.
The best and most recent representation of creative freedom comes in a completely different medium than music: comedy. After an extended, self-imposed hiatus, Dave Chappelle sold two stand-up specials to Netflix for $60 million, his first since 2004’s “For What It’s Worth.” Both specials, especially “Deep In the Heart of Texas,” challenge the conventions of the modern conversation and also point back to pre-21st-century stand-up when comedians smoked on stage, an endearing but seemingly appropriate inclusion in commenting on today’s unspoken pressures of correctness.
Whether it’s music or comedy, rushing the genesis of art before it can say something meaningful reduces it to entertainment. The significance that spans the length of 30 minutes to an hour only forms through enough experience and living to adequately fill that space without filler or cliché. In the words of Schopenhauer, artists like Chappelle, D’Angelo and Electronica do not descend from their mountains unless they’ve hit a target no else has yet seen.
Writing a weekly column doesn’t offer me the same luxury of aloofness, but compared to those mentioned in this one, I need all the practice I can get.
Luke Furman is a junior studying journalism at Ohio University. Please note that the views and opinions of the columnists do not reflect those of The Post. Do you appreciate when artists go on hiatus? Let Luke know by tweeting him @LukeFurmanLog or emailing him at lf491413@ohio.edu.
