The album is tangible, and as you go from top to bottom you feel yourself get heavier and heavier in the wicker chair on the porch in Houston, with the honey like summer sun weighing on you. The electric piano churns out jazzy chords like a mourning cry, constant and ever in the background, never too loud to distract you from Solange’s crisp, clear voice, that often cuts in unexpectedly and repeats the title a million times, or bursts into soulful, church choir uproar, like in Sound of Rain.
“When I get Home” has clearly not been produced with the goal of generating sales, but to be an impressionist piece of art that is listened to in it’s entirety and transports us to her Texas childhood. But how long do we really want to stay there?įrom the get-go we can tell that this is no easy money, quick fix album. It is a slow release project, unhurried and hazy and imbued with the ability to transport us to her hometown Houston, with it’s long summer days and nights that move at a crawl.
Solange released her fourth album this month, “When I get home”, and, much like the rest of the critical world, I am filled with mixed emotions about this piece.
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