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Janet Jackson talks too much. Seven of the 22 tracks on "The Velvet Rope" are so-called interludes -- spoken-word pieces meant to lend extra dramatic gravity to a record already heavy with moral instruction. It's as if Jackson doesn't trust the thrust of her music -- the Prince-style electrogallop of "Free Xone," the drum-and-bass crackle of "Empty" -- or the stout heart in her buttery singing to carry the load. And the message itself is confusing: a lecture in tolerance and tearing down walls by a woman who routinely positions herself on record, in public, as an object of worship. Except for those rare, explosive episodes when Jackson truly loses herself in the locomotion -- the happy house beats of "Together Again," the hopping-mad cadence of "What About" -- "The Velvet Rope" feels like a grand exercise in contrived honesty. Jackson wants you to believe she's a woman in charge. Ani DiFranco doesn't care what you think; she's been running her own show from the ground up for years. "Living in Clip" is a career-defining package, an indie-rebel-folk "Frampton Comes Alive" that celebrates DiFranco's entrepreneurial savvy, the iconoclastic vigor of her songwriting and her prowess as a performer. In agenda and mood, she evokes improbable but wholly believable flashes of Pete Seeger, Chrissie Hynde, "Blood on the Tracks"-era Bob Dylan and -- come on, go with this -- an acoustic, well-tempered Hole. But if there is plenty of punk here, it's punk as autonomous action and dedicated purpose -- a work ethic of the heart: "I just write about what I should have done/I sing what I wish I could say/And I hope somewhere, some woman hears my music/And it helps her through her day" ("I'm No Heroine"). That goes for guys as well. (RS 776/777)
Both Janet Jackson and her older brother Michael started out as cuddly child stars and then retreated into more-remote personas. But while Michael has nearly vanished into a sexually ambivalent neverland, Janet has made the attainment of a high-gloss, sexually charged "normalcy" her personal and professional project. Over the years, the military-style beats and dance moves of Control (1986) and Rhythm Nation 1814 (1989) slowly yielded to the teasing seductions of Janet. (1993) and The Velvet Rope (1997). Now, on All for You, Jackson cranks the heat higher still. She's newly single, and as song after song - not to mention the cover photo, in which she lies nude in bed, covered only by a sheet - declares, she's gotta have it. The dreamy ballad "Would You Mind" drifts into a soft-core fantasy: "I'm gonna kiss you/Suck you/Taste you," a moaning, "all juicy" Jackson promises, as she instructs her lover, "Oh, yeah, baby, just like that." Another ballad, "Love Scene (Ooh Baby)," is a rhapsody to "when you're fucking me." But if Jackson tries too hard to meet a standard of sexual frankness that's heightened in the four years since her last outing, she more than delivers her quota of hits. The title track swirls on the dizzying energy of a disco-era sample ("The Glow of Love," by Change), and the ballad "Better Days" ends the album on an irresistible note of uplift. And as she did with Joni Mitchell on The Velvet Rope, Jackson calls on a guest, Carly Simon, to reprise one of her signature hits. In this case, "You're So Vain" becomes "Son of a Gun (I Betcha Think This Song is About You)," and amid its esteem-bolstering proclamations of sisterhood, the track breaks the news that Simon's original was not about Mick Jagger, as was widely rumored. At thirty-five, Jackson is now an R&B veteran, and she's earned her stature not through innovation but through consistency. Each time out, Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis (with occasional help here from hip-hop producer Rockwilder) freshen up her sound just enough to make it current while honoring her roots in one of the first families of soul. All for You admittedly does not break much new ground, but it's just as fresh, familiar and appealing as you've come to expect from Jackson, and that's no small achievement. (RS 869 - May 24, 2001) ANTHONY DECURTIS
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