Posted on 06/14/2005

 

"I'm so grateful to God for putting all this together." That's the main liner note from Tyler Perry; who wrote, produced, and performed multiple roles in the movie Diary of a Mad Black Woman, and also oversaw this, the movie's soundtrack.

See, that shit's always bugged me. You got God, right? GOD. Supposedly been around since before the beginning of time, created reality, the universe, this planet, all of life, the human race, is going to destroy the forces of evil come Armageddon, etc. And apparently, besides letting particular people win Grammys and football games, he's primarily concerned with making sure some bullshit chocolate-milquetoast soundtrack CD gets recorded.

Yeah, thanks, big guy. Just what humanity needed right now. I mean, I understand it probably took you less than the bat of a cosmic eyelash, but even that seems like a waste of effort to bring this snooze-inducing buppie chick-fest into being. You can't be this hard-up to hear somebody praise your name a few times, can you?

No divine meddling at work, it's just a damn soundtrack. Originality ain't a priority here (Monica gives us a list of things she's sick and tired of, and actually tops it off by singing, "sick and tired of bein' sick and tired.") Passion and risk-taking aren't really priorities either: every note perfect and in its place—homogenized instant-R&B-just-add-water production that somehow makes many talented, distinctive singers (Natalie Cole, Patti LaBelle, Tamia, Angie Stone, etc.) all sound nearly identical. Smoother 'n a glass of Hershey's Quik, but not as nutritious.

But perhaps I'm being unfair. This is a CD for upscale, a-li'l-older, impeccably groomed musician brothas and sistas to play a couple times in the whip, echoing the many tasteful vocal riffs on the way to the wedding gig. And, who knows, maybe even actually being uplifted by all the gospel-lite sentiments, though I can't see it. If the first line uttered on the album ("It's like, you're baptisin' me with your love") doesn't make you groan and say, "next", by all means, tip your li'l toes into the shimmering lake of wind chimes and whispery background vocals.

Then go buy some Mahalia Jackson—for God’s sake.