For instance, “Jerk Ribs” may very well be the best of a tepid bunch, with the nimble bass and pushy horns of its verse, but its reminiscences on Kelis’s father, and more specifically on how he was responsible for instilling a passion for music in her, betray what the album’s musicophilia is really all about. Roger’s former energy and sass isn’t the only issue with Food, because it’s all-too possible to argue that the album’s “mature” restraint and politeness are bolstered by a complementary problem. But there’s a small hitch in its plans to mingle gustation and audition into one celebratory dish, and it’s that it represents the weakest music of her career, a recurrently insipid mélange of MOR pop, MOR R&B, and MOR AOR that’s been sieved of pretty much every flavor that installed the New Yorker as a harbinger for so many of the names (e.g., Rihanna, Lady Gaga) who today stand at the intersection between electro, dance, R&B, and pop. Or at least that’s what her sixth album might persuade you into believing, with its song titles that read like the menu from some po-mo restaurant and lyrics that tenderly quote her storied musical biography. Music may be the food of love for Shakespeare, but for Kelis, food is the love of music.
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