Not made to rap, Louis Logic was born conjoined to it

A word to the wise for my fellow up-and-comers in this microcosm we know as music journalism: this hobby profession self-indulgence is a grind. It doesn't matter if you write better than every dude out there, unless you have friends connections willing to stick their necks out for you so you can catch a break, your work won't get taped to the fridge in your mom's kitchen. Music journalism is a very insular community — think of the Illuminati, only instead of influencing world affairs they jock Cam'ron records and deny Lil' Wayne's rapid maturation. You need a passion for this, otherwise you're just wasting your time. And maybe you're parents money (don't worry dad, only three more years of university left... three-and-a-half?). My boy Henry from The Rap Up (and Tha Hip-Hop, which I write for too) liked this review and offered to publish it, but since I haven't updated Until the Train Stops... with some real music writin' in a minute, I told him not to worry about it. I'll come up with something even better for About, trust. I sent this review to a number of online magazines and I was pleasantly surprised to actually receive a response from one (thanks Todd!). To be honest, I didn't expect any of the publications to reply, but to hear from one of my favourite publications? That's encouraging. The game's disheartening at times, but no one said this was gonna be easy. Can't stop, won't stop.

Louis Logic & J.J. Brown - Misery Loves Comedy review

To the girl who broke Louis Logic’s heart: thank you. Because, really, no one wants to listen to rappers talk about how in love they are with some broad. Listeners want the good stuff. The deceit, the lies, the I’ll-never-love-again speeches and the hangovers from nights of therapeutic boozing. It’s why Atmosphere sells records and why Louis Logic, up to this point, hasn’t. Since its release in 2003, Sin-a-Matic has sold a tragic 5000 copies. Arguably the best debut this millennium (sorry, Kanye) from one of the most naturally gifted rappers to emerge in years, and the record doesn’t even go wood. What’s ironic is that Logic is essentially a pop star, making pop music, on an independent label; his charisma that of Ludacris proportions and his wit reminiscent of Marshall Mathers LP-era Eminem. Misery Loves Comedy delivers more of Lou’s trademark brand of beerlariness (he’d get along famously with Mike Skinner) but benefits from the black humour that soaks the album’s light-hearted vibes. In Louis Logic’s world, when a girl fucks you over there’s only one thing to do: interject it into your music.

Sin-a-Matic was a concept record of sorts, with none of the big seven left untouched (sloth: “Dos Factotum”, envy: “Best Friends”, wrath: “Revenge”, you know the deal) and Misery Loves Comedy could be classified as a break-up album. An actual, honest-to-god love song wouldn’t have sounded convincing on previous releases, but there’s three — plus a remix — here. Thankfully, heartbroken Lou isn’t much different from drunken Lou or horny Lou, just a lot more cynical regarding those of us with XX chromosomes. “All Girls Cheat” is full of that irreverent charm that epitomizes Louis Logic — and a gutsy, if suspect, choice for a lead-single, especially since it’s a less funny “Idiot Gear” without those “Mass Appeal”-nostalgic keys. “The Line” finds Louis discussing that unspoken you-can-look-but-can’t-touch rule between friends and their ladies. While his so-called buddies are “wondering who to blame, pointing at Lou again,” our lovable wino is pleading his innocence while admiring your girl from a (not so) far. And she loves it.

In a genre were nut-grabbing hyper-machismo is the standard blueprint for rappers, Lou’s defence mechanism is his sense of humour. He’s hard, but not in Kevlar-wearing, gun-toting fashion. The auto-biographical accuracy of “The Withdrawal Method” is up for debate, but the song’s self-awareness lends itself well to Logic’s never-too-serious outlook. The title might be poking fun at love’s addictive nature, but beneath the sing-song chorus and playful threats is the sound of an emcee evolving. Louis ventures into territory usually reserved for depressed anti-Bush activists (yo, what up Sage!) or dudes obsessed with girls named Lucy — and manages to avoid the arduous pretension that often plagues rappers who record songs with such themes.

Glimpses of Louis the person have begun to creep into his music, adding another dimension to his (outwardly) sex-driven, alcoholic persona. “The Great Divide” and its indie-folk remikks are two delicate and surprisingly touching songs. Disillusioned with romance and fed up with all of the petty, childish games, Louis spots on a girl “across the platform[…] on the Brooklyn-bound,” but can’t approach her. His insecurities are charming, and those who have felt that numbing reluctance before putting their hearts back out there — which is most of us — will relate with his self-doubt. “You could think my messy hair and vintage clothes are cute / But when you stare back, you could think I’m homeless too” speculates Lou, as hipsters worry their wardrobes are the cause of sabotaged introductions.

Drinking pal J.J. Brown has always produced the best Louis Logic songs, so making him an official partner-in-crime makes sense. Instead of fellating the works of James Brown and the likes, his source material sounds like it’s from two decades earlier. Swinging nightclub jazz and Maurice Chevalier snippets; by shifting his cone of vision by about twenty years, there’s an organic feel to the beats on Misery Loves Comedy that recalls live instrumentation. Granted, it’s too early to call them a modern-day — insert legendary producer and emcee duo here — but it’s been years since we’ve had a real producer-emcee tandem. Forget about Common and Kanye, the Louis Vuitton don is worse than Erykah Badu ever was for Canting Common (if Nas gets the Nasty pre-fix, then this suits Common).

But don’t sweat their technique, because Misery Loves Comedy doesn’t revolve solely around girls and broken hearts. Shooting the breeze over a sliced-and-diced jazz loop, Louis rips “Rule By a Fool” with humorous vitriol and a cadence that really brings Jay-Z’s “one flow for each song” mantra to fruition. His flow’s always been smooth as cashmere, but touring has helped hone his craft even further. On “New Leaf”, he rides the drums with the agility of a seasoned veteran, and I haven’t heard internal rhyme schemes this intricate since Breezly Brewin was staring into clear, blue skies. Later, Louis delivers the best metaphor involving weather-manipulation since Hov’s public service announcement: “Man, I got plans for the drought in chain stores, ‘cause nothing comes out worth paying for / But my mouth create clouds forecasting a brainstorm, and other rappers get rained on.”

While T.I. proved his can hang with the big boys with King, and with Weezy on the verge of something monstronious, Louis Logic makes this rap shit look easy — Misery Loves Comedy is a statement. It’s a fairly subtle evolution, one might not even notice the tightened breath control behind the flows until the fourth or fifth listen. But that’s the point; you’ll still be around for that fourth listen-through, singing along to “Morning After Pill”, the spiritual successor to the “Factotum” series, or imitating Lou’s infectious scat-slash-WTF apex on “Rule By a Fool”. If Misery Loves Comedy is anything, it’s focused. It’s thirteen therapy sessions for the twenty-something Louis Logic with his shrink J.J. Brown. Balancing frivolity and emotional gravitas is precarious work, but work that Lou excels at. What’s next Lou, a rap-opera? I know I’ll be waiting, as will 5000 other listeners — and hopefully more.