James Blake sometimes feels like pop music’s arch, ultra-serious older brother, floating above the scene with warbly torch songs that never quite come down to earth. He’s left his ghostly prints on artists ranging from Beyoncé to Rosalía to Lil Yachty, and it’s a testament to his influence how widespread his once novel, weightless style of production has become. There was a time when it wasn’t common for mainstream artists to sing over instrumentals that sound like they would crumble against a gentle caress, or pitch vocals up and down to inhuman extremes. All of that experimentation, coupled with his heart-on-sleeve, midtempo songwriting, has lent Blake a somewhat dowdy image, like a Tory councillor who liked dubstep before he finished business school. His work has moved back and forth between the dance music he started out making and the confessional singer-songwriter music that made him famous. His latest LP, Trying Times, stakes its claim right in the middle, with a newfound suavity and melodic sense borrowed from traditional R&B.
Blake often comes off somber, but those who pay attention know he’s just as often moony and lovestruck, or just straight-up weird. Trying Times shows off all sides of his personality, and he sounds free, unencumbered by expectations of what he’s supposed to do next. Maybe it’s because, after years of talking about the economics of releasing music, Trying Times is his first self-released album after leaving a major label. The album starts off sufficiently strange with the careening, hectic “Walk Out Music,” like “CMYK” all grown up. But instead of a Kelis sample, “Walk Out Music” features the semi-alarming hook, “You’re not good to anyone dead,” as the instrumental swirls and swells. This bit of defiance and affirmation underlines the album’s main themes: facing off existential dread and committing to being in love even when it’s hard.
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Tracks like the slightly pompous, Leonard Cohen-sampling “Death of Love” paint a picture of a relationship slouching towards stagnation. The male choir and lyrics like, “I think we might be walking to the death of love” are pretty dour, and maybe a little much. But you also have lovely moments like “Make Something Up,” where Blake tries to pin down a series of specific feelings into words that escape him, before asking: “Why don’t we make something up?” It’s the kind of idly philosophical chat you have with someone you know better than anyone, an intimate moment that seems kind of dumb but also kind of profound.
These songs are built around classic R&B and doo-wop elements, including samples of Hollywood oddities the Lewis Sisters. These stylistic choices highlight Blake’s songwriting instincts, which on other records could be drowned out by the overbearing production or long, meandering runtimes. Here, even when things take left turns, the songs feel tighter and more focused. On the title track, Blake writes one of his most potent love songs, elevating a cliché with simple, stunning vocal runs: “I’m an eyesore/You’re a sight for sore eyes.” The chorus of “Through the High Wire” ascends toward the heavens with Blake’s falsetto mangled by a strange gate effect that renders it inhuman for split seconds at a time. But behind all the effects, it’s a lovely, inspirational pop tune.
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