It is not easy being George Michael, at least not George Michael the musician, or so it would seem. Granted, finding a voice at mid-life, hell, at any point in life, is never easy, but having to find one in the wake of one of the most successful pop music careers of all-time must be downright daunting. It was easy for George's one time peer Madonna, because she had never really gone away, not even in times when then the public wished her away. Not to mention the fact that her well documented journey from Ms. Erotica to Mrs. Mama Enlightenment is the stuff of legend, and it looks good in print. George Michael, on the other hand, had many skeletons with which to contend and the proverbial closet in his shadow, always at arms length. For him there would be no cabala, or children, or happy marriages, no, for him there would be no easy outs or answers. But there was a cop, an arrest and very public outing. Even one of these, in the absence of the others, would have brought down lesser pop stars, but George, to his credit, and occasionally to the luck of his dwindling fan base, decided to soldier on and face, publicly, questions that had haunted him since his days with Andrew Ridgeley and Wham!.
Not that everyone past puberty didn't know that George Michael was gay, hell, even my grandma knew. Still coming out is no easy thing, not for a too manicured pop star who loved to advertise his bottom to the world. Nor for a gorgeous and talented rock star noticeably shy of female companionship and not even in a world filled with others who were out and successful, because despite what it might sometimes seem, the entertainment highway is still, and continuously littered with the bodies of those who thought they could but found that the world just was not ready. What this whole process did for George Michael the person can only be answered by him, but what it did for he the musician was present a mountain of questions, dilemmas and disappoints that seem to sit on him now, much like a mountain on a stream.
Patience, his new album, is very much like a painting with one gorgeous spot right in the center that proves, without a doubt, that here is an artist who once knew greatness. Yet, when one pauses to consider the rest of the canvas, one finds it free of any sense of draughtsmanship or organization, and free of a studied knowledge of color or line. It seems, in some parts, in fact, as if it had been painted by some untrained, undisciplined student of that master who lazily turned his eye to other things. Gone then is George's effervescent and insurgent self-confidence that seemed to pour over from every track on his first two studio albums, and even in moments on his third. In its place, is a confused, brilliant and desperately searching man who does not, anymore, know where to venture forth as an artist. Is he an out and dancing gay icon who produces divine and ecstatic dance numbers for his fellow-travelers to embrace and high five him for as they pass him in Soho on their way to the club? Or is he the dark and introspective man who cares not for glory in a world that sits too heavily on his tired shoulders making him a man and artist who yearns only to share and inform? Or is he merely that unobtrusive, give you melody till you weep, torch singer who is present more to diffuse the background noise than to inspire or be heard. All three of these possible future George's are here and each offers the listener hope for the future, but, unfortunately, amongst these three personalities there is little organization and lots and lots of flailing about. That is not to say that there are not moments that make you wonder if the old confident George Michael might not still be there, somewhere behind the veils of smoke and unfortunate attempts at hipness waiting to send us soaring into ear candy blissfulness.
Most successful of these moments is the mid-tempo and directly auto-biographical "Round Here," which acts as a beautiful, melodic and triumphant walk down memory lane—one that is decidedly free of the self-indulgent poor-me attitude that has been the marker of his most recent work. To his credit, George has rarely sounded as soulful as he does here, or more attuned with his gift as a songwriter, as a vocalist or producer. "Shoot The Dog" also finds George in fine form and its addictive groove and robust connection to a musical past, rife with promise, is infectious and should provide more than enough inspiration for a handful of glorious remixes well into the future. "Through," another vocal high point, proves why, once again, there are so few white boys who can call convincingly call themselves a soul singer without blushing or being booed from the stage, George Michael is no-kind-of-joke amazing when he lets his chops down.
I am sure that he, and his bevy of yes-people, believed that he was making a profound philosophical and social statement with "John and Elvis Are Dead," you can hear in his voice that he does, which gives the track a bit more strength than it might otherwise have had, but what that statement might be is one that I could not coax from it, despite repeated, and I do mean repeated, listens. To even try to keep score between Jesus and the handful or dead pop stars that he invokes with a understandable sense nostalgia and loss seems fruitless at best, and silly at worst. "Please Send Me Someone To Love (Anselmo's Song)" provides one of those moments where it seems that George is heading for a place that he never seems to reach. There is a hopeful and bright energy that promises things that it never delivers, but you sense they are there just out of reach, hiding amongst a stellar vocal performance but disappointing production choices. "My Mother Had A Brother" another, and far less successful foray into the land of autobiography, is so bogged down in torch song drama that his over-reaching performance renders it far less effective and personal than the lyrics would hope to suggest. "The Grave," a moving number that showcases a more subdued version of George, the great torch singer, begins acapella and barely rises above that, but the overblown ending ruins what could have been a quiet and effective tribute. "American Angel" is a smooth synth pop number with layered vocals and a romantic, hopeful lyric yet it is its smoothness which is its demise, in fact, the song nearly collapses into itself ala Sade. It is no doubt beautiful, but no less sleep-inducing.
The less one says, to be fair, about "Flawless (Go To The City) the better, therefore I will say nothing and everything all at once. "Amazing," a previously released success in discos around the world is, while able to induce even the most reticent to move to the floor, still oddly generic. While George's smooth tonsils glisten and amaze throughout there is still a deep disconnect from the material that renders it ultimately unsatisfying to a listener who truly wants to be convinced.
George Michael is undeniably a man of enormous talent. He has created some of the most powerful, inspiring and moving—not to mention fun and silly, pop music concoctions of his or any generation. He claims, I hear, that this is to be his last album. I hope that is not true for many reasons. First, because this is simply not the album to end with, because while it has moments that make it worth the expense of purchase it is in the end an undisciplined menagerie of over-sentimentality and self-indulgence. Second, and perhaps more profoundly, is the fact that George Michael did not fall from his groove however many years ago but was pushed from it unfairly and he owes it to himself as an artist and to all of those idiots who stopped listening because they believed him to be done, to get back in there, get over his hurdles, and make at least one more album that his history with Wham! and his initial solo successes prove that he can make. It has been tried, with success, by far lesser a person, and, more importantly, by far lesser a musician.
George Michael Patience
