Happy 20th Anniversary to Erykah Badu’s second studio album Mama’s Gun, originally released November 21, 2000.
If Erykah Badu’s era-defining debut Baduizm (1997) helped create a new box to put artists in (“neo-soul”), then her follow-up Mama’s Gun picked that box up, threw it to the floor and stamped all over it, smashing it to smithereens. Created at the end of one century and the beginning of another, it both reflects her past endeavor and forges a new direction for her artistry, allowing others to follow in her wake.
Further context is provided by the community that contributed to its mastery—one of a triptych of towering monuments to the power and creativity of soul and hip hop music (D’Angelo’s Voodoo and Common’s Like Water For Chocolate), it was nurtured and encouraged by the vanguard of a new golden era of black music. With Ahmir “Questlove” Thompson, James “J Dilla” Yancey, James Poyser, Roy Hargrove and the engineer Russell Elevado all in attendance in support roles, Badu was able to express herself on a canvas that shifted constantly and beguiled easily.
There had been a break of nearly four years between her debut and this successor (discounting a live album), one that had felt lengthy to eager fans but in reality was nothing more than a necessary break to focus on other, more important, things. Her relationship with André Benjamin (André 3000 of OutKast) had yielded a son (Seven) and was in the throes of ending by the time recording came around.
The abiding theme of the album is the search for freedom—freedom to love, freedom to pursue pleasure, freedom to love oneself and freedom from pain. That freedom is evident from the first minutes of the album, with opener “Penitentiary Philosophy” exploding out of the blocks in what was a wholly unexpected way.
The domesticity that comes with parenthood is alluded to as she whispers to herself “I have to remember to turn on the oven, I have to take my vitamins” and so forth until Questlove’s drums beckon the listener to a slice of funk rock complete with swirling organ, searing guitar (courtesy of Jeff Lee Johnson) and a frenzy of double time drums at its climax. As both an escape from the mundanity of family life and a stylistic break from Baduizm, it is an imperiously jarring wake up call.
Freedom from having to know the answers permeates on “Didn’t Cha Know” alongside Badu’s customary honesty. To the accompaniment of a sumptuous bassline and a reassuring rimshot clack, she sings: “Trying to decide / Which way to go / Think I took a wrong turn up there somewhere.”
In addition to being honest enough to admit to mistakes, she may be momentarily lost but is ultimately happy for the journey, seeing happiness as the road, rather than the destination. The same freedom motif rings out loud on “Cleva” with its delicately chill inducing combination of tinkling piano and Roy Ayers’ effervescent vibes as she opens up about her physical appearance and boasts of her mental capacities (“This is how I look without makeup / and with no bra my ninnies sag down low / my hair ain’t never hung down to my shoulders / and it might not grow / ya never know / but I’m cleva”).
After a brief interlude for the heavenly “Hey Sugah,” Badu’s slyly confident wit comes to the fore with a spitting, kicking bit of funk courtesy of “Booty.” But for all her seemingly unshakeable confidence, it never comes at the cost of the kinship with her sister (“Your booty might be bigger / but I still can pull your n***a / but I don’t want him . . . hey hey hey / I don’t want him / cause of what he doin’ to you / and you don’t need him / cause he ain’t ready / see I don’t want him”). The funk is tight with Questlove’s clipped staccato drumming, Roy Hargrove’s restrained horns and the slightest of key flashes—it is a model of constrained genius.
Genius also runs through the changes of mood and direction on “Kiss Me On My Neck.” What starts as subtly sexual yearning changes to a demand for the designated one to be “divine”—she wants someone, but they have to be good enough for the best.
As the album progresses, there’s a devastatingly downbeat tribute to Amadou Diallo, who was gunned down by police in New York in February 1999; a sumptuously jazzy “Orange Moon” and the sole (slight) misstep on the album—the pleasant but ultimately unremarkable “In Love With You” with Stephen Marley.
At its ending though, is a transcendently triumphant trio of songs that are among my favorite sequences on any album I own and it ends with one of my favorite songs of all time.
First up is lead single “Bag Lady” which gave Badu her first Billboard top 10 song, reaching number 6. The accompanying video (directed by the artist) used a different version of the song (Cheeba Sac Mix), but I much prefer the original version. “Bag Lady” is a genius work in three acts.
Firstly it begins with what sounds a little like the morse code “SOS” sound before the heady brew of bass, Rhodes and the faintly militaristic rat-a-tat of snare drums sets the scene for Badu’s observation of physical and metaphorical baggage weighing down the women around her: “Bag lady you gone hurt your back / dragging all them bags like that / I guess nobody ever told you / all you must hold on to / is you, is you, is you.”
Crucially though, she moves from passive observer to active participant and she empathizes with the issues, using “we” instead of “you”: “Girl, I know sometimes it’s hard and we can’t let go / Oh when someone hurts you oh so bad inside / you can’t deny it, you can’t stop crying.” At that point the clack of the rimshot and the bass join in glorious union to propel the song higher until it subsides once more and there’s another blissed out refrain of “Let it go, let it go, let it go, let it go oh.”
Then things begin to change once more as the music ascends heaven-ward while she offers the solution to the ills (“I betcha love could make it better”) and her voice alongside the impeccable backing vocals (courtesy of N’Dambi and Yahzarah) are raised in exultation to the redemptive power of love.
Here, Badu casts herself as both sufferer and support, offering hard-won advice to those in the same boat as her. She is friend, confidant and agony aunt in one person.
The second of this untouchable trio is “Time’s a Wastin,’” which positively radiates with warmth (for the main part). The pulsing glow of the Fender Rhodes and the strings arranged by the legendary Larry Gold create a bed of luxurious comfort for Badu to lay her honeyed vocals on. A plea to make the most of precious time, it soothes even as it yearns for action.
Then, though, comes the musical change that reframes the piece. Gone are the gently see-sawing and pizzicato strings and in come the mournful, doom-laden cellos to add layers of drama to what otherwise had been rather wistful in its beseeching.
Finally, comes a towering achievement that once again displays Badu’s masterful control of mood change and emotional journey in her songwriting. “Green Eyes” is epic in both length (though it flashes by) and emotional heft. Badu herself labels the movements as Denial, Acceptance and The Relapse, and it is a journey through jealousy, fear, regret and (ultimately) some kind of resolution.
The epic scale of the journey is accentuated by the musical backdrop of each section—part one is all old-time piano and muted trumpet while her vocal is obscured slightly in the manner of an old, belovedly scratched vinyl record. By making it sound like a historical artifact, she accentuates the length of the journey to redemption. Meanwhile the lyrical content (“My eyes are green cos I eat a lot of vegetables / It don’t have nothing to do with your new friend”) minimizes and belittles the crushing heartache to come.
Suddenly then, her vocal becomes much more intimate and the rest of the band appears from nowhere to add gravitas to her soul-bearing: “I’m insecure / But I can’t help it / My mind says move on / My heart lags behind / But I don’t love you anymore.”
A false ending (a grand tradition of soul music) pauses the song briefly before the pain gives way to vitriol spewed out amidst the confusion brought on by deception. A flutter of flute marks yet another break in the tightly controlled proceedings and then James Poyser’s piano brings the full band back to offer Badu the chance to rebuke herself for her foolishness, before she realizes that the breakdown is due to her lover’s weaknesses and not her deficiencies. Epic seems hardly the right word to describe the journey that is laid out for our consumption.
And thus it ends; an album of genius that shows Erykah Badu in all of her multi-faceted glory. The freedom it searches for requires bravery and that bravery is evident throughout. It is there in the break from traditional song structures, it is there in the baring of emotional vulnerability and, most importantly, it is there in its assertion of female confidence and empowerment.
Twenty years on, it still resonates profoundly and will do for many future generations.
LISTEN: