I might be the only person that doesn’t like Leon Bridges – and I’m okay with that. When he burst on the scene and was described as Pure Vintage Soul or whatever approximate bullshit I cringed. Hard. I mean, he was no more Sam Cooke or Otis Redding than Charles Bradley was James Brown. Still, that worked for Bradley. And at least Bridges can sing.
He doesn’t, however, have anything to say, nor anything worth saying.
And on Good Thing, which is mostly anything but, he hints that all this, ahem, Good Time Vintage Soul, is/was a giant fucking ruse. He’s just Ginuwine without the stubble, he’s just a Nelly that doesn’t get plastered (and maybe that’s because he’s just D’Angelo without the six-pack), he’s most certainly Raphael Saadiq without the talent. Look, he’s just the R. Kelly you can get to babysit.
Yep, alright, I’ll cop to a jazz-lite funkiness propelling Lions and Mrs. It’s sorta D’angelo-esque. You can snap your fingers (if you must). But this is lightweight. It’s lazy. It’s hook-less and forgettable.
But for those sold on him as some nu-soul saviour this will be reported as a new, fresh take.
It’s stale. But it’s for sale.
Buy into it. Someone will think you’re cool.
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