M.I.A. – MAYA
Maya, the third album by British Sri Lankan rapper and multi-tasker M.I.A. is like its creator: loud, hectic, and brash. On first listen, I’d add “confused” to that list, but M.I.A. (Maya to her mum) doesn’t mess around: “I won’t turn my cheek like I’m Gandhi,” she warns on Lovalot, and witness the journalist who wrote an unflattering account recently and, as punishment, had her mobile number tweeted to the star’s fan base. But what to think of a political activist and self-proclaimed “outsider” whose boyfriend’s dad is CEO of Warner Music Group and heir to a liquor fortune? Rappers are all about authenticity, innit? Keeping it real? On second listen, the sheer inventiveness of the album, with its fat buzz-saw synths, bloops, and skittering rhythms begins to win me over, and the sudden musical gear-shifts – the sweet ragga of It Takes a Muscle, the pummelling electroclash of Born Free -seem to eloquently express the contradictions M.I.A. embodies: pop singer/electro brutalist, fashionista/activist, British/Sri Lankan. Maya is a more than listenable soundtrack for the revolution. Or the vacuuming. Whatever comes first.
*** 1/2
