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There are a couple
of possibly distressing things about Dizzee Rascal's second album,
released almost exactly a year after his breakthrough debut. In the
wake of the Streets' ambitious A Grand Don't Come for Free, its title
-- Showtime -- conjures frights about a concept record strangled by
ruminations on newfound fame and all the accompanying trappings. Dizzee
being such a product of his environment, as Boy in da Corner conveyed
with stark original clarity, it'd be a shame to see the producer/MC
stagger down the trodden-flat route of the average lyricist who has
tasted a smidgen of glory, real or make-believe: how many people crave
another slew of verses about gold-digging women and crew members who
have morphed into greedy coattail riders? This paranoia is compounded
by pre-release rumors of Dizzee American-izing his sound, sacrificing
individuality for the sake of widespread appeal. Thankfully, it turns
out that there really isn't much worth worrying about. If Showtime
isn't the equal artistic success of Boy in da Corner, it's slightly
superior, stunning for the facts that it arrives so swiftly after
the debut and is far from a retread. At the risk of backpedaling ever
so slightly, it is troubling that the female-male politics of Boy
in da Corner's "I Luv U" are replaced with the slightly
noxious lechery of "Girls," and a few too many rhymes about
his past year in the spotlight are simple-minded and needlessly defensive.
However, the negative aspects are few and fleeting, typically swallowed
whole by the streams of surrounding positives. For instance, the pungent
"Girls" is trailed by the poignant "Imagine,"
in which Dizzee reflects in heart-stopping form amid string swoops,
synth flutters, and rhythm splutters. And during those short moments
spent in lame-brain braggart mode, you can still get lost in the pure
sound of his voice -- an attraction as serious as his production prowess.
As a beatmaker, Dizzee now ranks near the top, entire planet considered,
whether he's dishing out a crowd-hyping batter-bounce or crafting
something more intricate, where synthetic approximations of exotic
instrumentation -- Oriental melodies, African percussion -- are pitted
against ballast-blasting beats. Needless to say, the novelty status
once accorded to this maverick by shortsighted cynics has now been
obliterated by a shower of genius juice. ~ Andy Kellman, All Music
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