Happy 25th Anniversary to Maxwell’s second studio album Embrya, originally released June 30, 1998.
In Paris, in 1874, a group of artists that included Claude Monet, Edgar Degas, Paul Cézanne and Auguste Renoir exhibited their work in a collection that sent shockwaves through the art world. Revulsion and scorn poured forth from art critics at the abject horrors (to their eyes) that hung before them. Here, any attempt to capture the world around the artist accurately and realistically, was gone, replaced by a desire to portray an impression of the world as it appeared to the artist. Their approach was held together by a desire to capture a feeling or an experience, rather than reflect the reality of the world. The critics loathed it with a passion.
Now, 150 years later, it seems unthinkable that anyone could react so negatively to the work of those Impressionist painters. Work by the aforementioned artists would trade hands for millions upon millions of dollars—should they ever actually come to the market. Some of the most famous and valuable works of art in the world were created by Monet, Cézanne and the others and adorn merchandise the world over. Proof, if proof were needed, that the purpose of art is often to disrupt patterns of thought and approaches to creativity.
When Maxwell released his second album Embrya in 1998, the creative world he existed within (soul music), reacted in a fairly similar way. His debut album Maxwell’s Urban Hang Suite (1996) had been a huge success and took its inspiration from its forebears quite obviously—the closest template in both sound and theme was Marvin Gaye’s Leon Ware abetted 1976 classic I Want You. Though it came with a few modern touches and shades, the enduring palette of 1970s soul undoubtedly lay at its foundations. Accordingly, powered by its songwriting guile, his ridiculously handsome features and his angelic voice, it was a huge success. Which, naturally, meant one thing above all else—more pressure on his follow-up.
Everything about Embrya, from the song titles, through the artwork and the music itself screamed of change, evolution and, obviously, rebirth. But many critics reacted in ways not dissimilar to those art critics in 1874 when confronted with the “impressions” of the world seen through Cézanne et. al’s eyes. The comparisons to the painters of the mid to late 19th Century don’t stop with the revulsion that critics met it with, though.
A comparison of lyrics from his debut album with those here on Embrya make it crystal clear that it was a more “impressionistic” approach to lyrical expression. On Urban Hang Suite, the following lyrics were typical of his approach to writing: “If it’s cool / We can do a little sumthin’ sumthin’” (from “Sumthin’ Sumthin’”), “Gonna take you in the room sugar / Lock you up in love for days” (from “…Til The Cops Come Knockin’”), and “I got my eyes on you / I watch the way you groove / You look so very cool / The way your body moves” (from “Dancewitme”).
Listen to the Album:
They are direct, unobscured in their meaning and most definitely devoted to lustful pastimes. But the lyrical content of Embrya is different. Here the meanings, while not exactly difficult to decipher, are certainly less straightforward. On “Luxury: Cococure,” Maxwell starts with “Took a high from a low / Took my icy freeze and thawed the cold / An inspired undisclosed.” On “Drowndeep: Hula,” he sings “I’ll wear your liquid kiss and watch it as if inside / Dispel the negative as if a myth alive.” While on “Gravity: Pushing To Pull,” the second verse goes as follows: “As the moments drip like water / I’ll be patient for my slaughter / As the dawning slays the evening / I’ll be waiting, I’ll be…”
All of these examples demonstrate the change, not just in lyrical qualities but also the titles of the songs. Rarely has an album track list had such a sprinkling of colons and it was enough to put a fickle public off in some cases. But it was hardly the first time that song titles had used interesting constructions in soul music. Even the slightest glance at Funkadelic’s discography would show outrageous concoctions for song titles and Prince released “Anotherloverholenyohead” in 1986, yet it all combined on Embrya to provide a layer of obfuscation that some found hard to get past.
Even in the press at the time of release, it was clear things weren’t going to be as simple and straightforward as his debut. When he spoke to the Washington Post, he talked about “an approaching growing transition thought to be contained but destined for broader perception.” It’s hardly plain speaking now, is it?
Alongside producer Stuart Matthewman of Sade fame, Maxwell created a stubborn retort to the success of his debut album. When reflecting on it with The Sydney Herald newspaper he acknowledged that willful streak, explaining, “What I did with Embrya (on purpose) was that it was the anti-Afro ‘70s funk soul record.”
What he did do, though, was pave a way for future artists to take his template and apply it to their own artistry. It is easy to see the link between this work and artists like The Weeknd (in his early work at least), Miguel, Kelela and many others who’s glacial, slowed iteration of R&B is an even more chilled version of the liquid grooves Maxwell created here on Embrya.
Beyond the importance for Maxwell and the broader soul music community, this album has a special place in my journey of listening to music. When Embrya was released in 1998, I had just bought a Discman and I took it on my summer holiday, a holiday that turned out to be the last one I took with my parents and siblings as we spread our collective wings and flew the nest. I vividly remember putting the album on one night as I lay in bed and becoming lost in its intricacies and sonic beauty.
Part of that was due to the intimate listening experience with headphones. As a teenager, my growing interest in music was founded entirely on cassettes and a pretty cheap twin deck Sharp cassette player. As University beckoned me, I moved to CDs but the inclusion of a Discman opened up new worlds for me. Music had always been a highly personal thing that I didn’t share with many people, but now I could disappear completely.
This album taught me the difference between hearing and listening. I wondered at Embrya’s sonics and noticed details and moments in ways I had never done before. The chill and thrill I got that day set the template for how I would absorb music in all its glorious detail from that day forward. The music was mine, not to be shared with anyone. My treasured little secret.
I also learned that not everyone feels like that (and that’s okay). The next morning, I went to my sister and insisted she put the headphones on and give it a try. “It sounds amazing,” I said, practically begging her to share my wonder. A few minutes later (the brevity of which did not bode well), she emerged non-committal and shrugging pleasantly. Clearly, she hadn’t been grabbed like me.
It really was all mine.
Listen: