Michael's Cut

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You’re told that nothing lasts forever, that this life subsides to the sediments masking the earth. But on Erotic Probiotic 2, the premise’s mystified and transforms to vapor. What’s life without notes from the past, at least not from a recent one? You flipped through your parents’ old record stacks – the SWV’s and Johnny O’s of the world – only to find that flashes of your aunties’ first BeDazzler guns appeared. And baby pictures where your dad held your oldest sibling like a football, unsure about the definition of fatherhood. Back when superlatives meant the world and was to some, others took it as a parade that hid the late rent notices, the uncertainty of tomorrow.

Too many American dreams clouded our parents’ judgments. The standard to not only have a front lawn but also to maintain its green hue failed by the former and successive generations, most unable to start a life on their own. On “Quantum Suicide,” when our Baltimore musician sings, “I’m letting go in a way / the journey the pain,” they’re not just releasing their own anguish from everyday survival; it’s the purge of an entire lineage.

Under the alias Nourished by Time, Marcus Brown leads with a woolen baritone, magnetic yet repelling upon first encounter. On the opener, a strange ooze creeps above the bleachers from where he spies. Synth stabs radiate like the aftermath of a rainstorm, though the focus’ still lethargic. Already, Brown confesses, “Sometimes I wake up, and I’m disappointed,” backed by an ‘80s synthpop glamor. His tone carries warmth, but spoils as it lingers to search for clues. Sometimes, the answer’s in Jesus Christ (or so it seems) or at the retail store, as “The Fields” professes. Other times, it’s in the self, though they don’t know what – or more so, who – to trust.

As the album progresses, this particular demesne, where our protagonist’s subordinate to his mischances, becomes more enthralling. Brown’s words are washed with blues and melancholy, blemished by today’s socioeconomic order. In contrast, the sound of Erotic Probiotic 2 favors our parents’ glory days. A mosh of ‘80s and ‘90s genre tags fizz to the top of this soda pop, not limited to R&B, pop, and dance music. That same otherness felt on “Quantum Suicide” seeps into its successors, nourishing them with a haze akin to a George Clanton production. But for all this nostalgia, the record’s more concerned with the present and, perhaps, a second chance at life.

However, discovering this faint glimmer requires spading. The record unloads its negativity all too well, like a sewage channel leaking into the ocean. Even “Daddy,” with its flashy freestyle beat, feigns passion in relationships. “I say ‘I love you” / you say ‘whatever,” Brown raps with conviction as the world opposes his ambition for love. Moreover, you’d have to address the role of capitalism as suspect number one, just as “The Fields” and “Worker’s Interlude” do, along with climate change. And with an eroding environment, with “fallen kings” and “broken men,” a sense of confusion dawns on us: how much can today deal? 

Only one song stands out among the dismay. “Shed That Fear,” the second track, lyrically fits as a proper conclusion, but maybe it’s best heard earlier in the tracklist. Sometimes, life’s ills are too great to even fathom the resilience, the one that pushes you to prepare your bag or rewrite your name tag. We see this idea flourish with the bold closer, “Unbreak My Love.” It wails to glue Brown’s heartbreak back together amidst reflections about a second life and spiritual guidance. But “Shed That Fear” takes just a ‘90s-styled keyboard melody and an unknown voice  in your head motivating you to be alive, unafraid of death. And at its best, it takes us to a garage, where we listen to an artist with potential for stadium-level performances, how it does justice to its message with simple arrangements and a youthful sound, most importantly.

“Rain Water Promise” and “Soap Party” bank on similar tropes: pouring when it rains, taking comfort in the storm, mending the branches, and so forth. In the end, it might just be a waste of time, as Brown puts it. The songs serve as the somber centerpieces of the album, highlighted by both their smoothness and fullness, a bottle of the finest merlot available. Whereas the former showcases Brown’s dreamy vocal runs, the latter vocally walks us through his intonations. A speck of hope rustles from the wreckage: it’s clarity, his sense of awareness heightening as he learns that you can’t put your faith into something not rewarding anymore. “I guess you can’t rejoin the leaves / fallen from the trees,” he sings on the former. Breakthrough. It finally came, the point when you can move forward because you know you’re worth more than the struggles you’ve faced. And just as you say the rain is you on “Soap Party,” let the sun and all its brilliance become you as well.

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