Two Weak Men
The authors will refer to the object of study, for now, as a recentish popular music memelet: WEAK MEN fronting like womanizers. And they may well be womanizers, as these categories are hardly mutually exclusive (indeed, much could be speculated as to the inherent weakness of a tendency to womanize) but these men are bruised, too, and either make a big show of it (Kanye, half of The-Dream's new album) or make a big show to distract from it (Ryan Leslie, the other half of The-Dream's new album).
Common characteristics of the Weak Man:
1. Focus on a long-term relationship, possibility or failure of.
2. Lack of demonstrable charisma or talent as performer.
3. Self-directed rage and/or projected casual misogyny/demeaning behavior as transparent compensation for own performative inadequacies (see 2).
4. Incongruous sunglasses, often worn indoors.
5. Production background preceding misguidedly messianic emergence in spotlight.
These don't all apply to all Weak Men -- all apply, give or take, to Kanye and The-Dream, most apply to Ryan Leslie and Christimbornelland, a few apply, perhaps, to Ne-Yo. One might argue that several of these apply to R. Kelly, though this is an admittedly hesitant categorization that the authors wish to avoid at this point in time.
(We will except Kanye from this discussion because he doesn't need the ink and, frankly, is a little overblown in "ahead of the curve"-type talk.)
The underlying weakness of the Weak Man can be exhibited in many forms: brazen minimalist spotlighting (R-Les), subtle maximalist hedging (T-Dream), incompatible mindfuckery (Timbanell), unsuspecting balladry requiring somewhat close listening for Weakness Impact (Ne-Yo).
Evaluatively speaking, the maximalist hedge seems to be the most successful strategy for disguising weakness, provided the performer's participation is cloaked, not highlighted, in the technique; the sound creates crevices for the canny but deficient performer to occasionally hide, deter attention to sonic elements, transform weak "raw" vocals, etc.
Ryan Leslie's minimalist approach is problematic: Leslie provides an effective blueprint of his productions in the work itself, a sort of oil/water (damn you CORNELL I've used this metaphor like three times in the past few days!!!!!) separation of elements. Note the methodical introduction of elements into an exemplary production (for our current purposes), like Cassie's "Is It You," in which, quite literally, instruments are foregrounded separately before cohering fully in the chorus. This, of course, presents a danger to the (lacking) performer -- competence is absolutely non-negotiable, and charisma is more important, too. There's nowhere to hide.
R-Les's approach itself betrays his misplaced sense of confidence and underlying weakness: though the production is unquestionably signature, one can arguably imagine flattering versions of many of these songs that don't provide quite as spare a stage for Ryan to flail on; yet, to embellish the set dressing would be to fundamentally alter Ryan's M.O. as a producer. He struggles between two distinct auteurist impulses, one as the string-puller and one as the stringed-performer, and has difficulty pulling it off, though he's wise enough to keep his sights low enough, save a few audacious exceptions ("Diamond Girl," "Gibberish," which uses Autotune semi-sarcastically in a rare glimpse of gratuitous ornamentation) to consistently clear the competence hurdle. But the further obstacle of genuine charisma is clearly insurmountable.
In this metaphor, The-Dream provides a mass of compensatory strings that, in effect, become their own aesthetic -- his getting tangled on and in them is a non-issue; it's part of the act. Where Ryan multitracks precisely, Dream seems to enjoy the sheer gratuity of the production gimmicks at his and his co-producers' disposal. Crucially though, and unlike Timbanell, The-Dream also has a notable sense of economy in the fundamental structures and melodies driving his work -- where R-Les's work is reminiscent of precise, single-stroke Japanese art (recalled, for instance, by Bill Evans in the Kind of Blue liner notes), The-Dream incessantly spirographs, creating meaning not in the economy of his lines (though some perception of a "line" or hook emerges from the whole), but in the general mosaic of webs and gaps -- this aesthetic may also help a cogent conceptual unity, exemplified in the narrative unity of the album's latter half, emerge from the work as a whole, while with Ryan we are figuratively left grasping at straws, lines, spare little sketches that refuse to congeal. Both are fussy and perhaps overly controlling, but The-Dream, at least, knows how to filibuster in fascinating, and often revelatory, ways.
