The schmaltzy horns of “Come See Me,” the first and worst of the offenders, provides more of a hook than Scott’s shapeless, aimless chorus (“I wanna feel passion and desire baby,” etc.), while some of the more explicit passages from “Epiphany” (“Rode Mt.
The brassy, bold lead single, “Hate On Me,” takes on Internet haters (who knew she had any, and why?!) with a gusto only Scott could summon: “Ooh, if I gave you peaches/Out of my own garden/And I made you a peach pie/Would you slap me out?”īut The Real Thing then swiftly descends into over half an hour of sex songs you’d expect to hear at the tail end of a Janet Jackson album. 3 begins deceptively: “Let It Be” embodies everything we love about Scott-a unique idiom, a vocal range that can figuratively and literally reach the headiness of Minnie Riperton and the expansive depths of Aretha Franklin, and a refusal to be squeezed into any one musical form or format-while the title track kicks off the album proper with the kind of dirty, sexy guitar lick you’d expect to hear in a nighttime soap like Melrose Place. Instead, the woman who once proclaimed, “Complacency you ain’t gon’ get me, no no no” has slipped into some kind of aural and thematic monotony. Jill Scott’s extraordinary debut signaled the birth of an artist with bottomless potential, one who could feasibly deliver on that promise again and again, inventively and steadily, over the course of many years and many records.
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