Happy 30th Anniversary to Seal’s eponymous second studio album Seal (a.k.a. Seal II), originally released May 23, 1994.
“Somebody said, ‘a Black guy who sounds like Peter Gabriel, that’s not commercial,’” recounts producer Trevor Horn. “They completely missed what was going on.” By now, they’ve certainly caught up. When most learned of six-foot-four, dreadlocked, London-born, Nigerian singer-songwriter Seal, it was via “Crazy,” the first single from his self-titled 1991 debut. The dimensional tune introduced his graveled baritenor and its ability to captivate both pop and club-oriented audiences.
Considering the proximal electronica of follow-ups “The Beginning” and “Killer,” it’s surprising Seal wasn’t lured to follow the dance paths forged by Pet Shop Boys or Haddaway. Instead, he dove into himself, mining his experience and others’ to capture the ways humans navigate suffering and tumult. Like Weezer, Aretha Franklin, or vocal doppelgänger Gabriel, he felt very much at liberty to give his sophomore set the same name as his first: Seal (often called Seal II to distinguish from any predecessor or successor).
Shedding his locks—and any clothing—Seal outstretches his broad, brawny, oiled frame across an achromatic, Nick Knight-captured cover image so iconic, it became his official logo. Like this image, the music also lays itself starkly bare. Seal II balances abstract lyricism and bold instrumentation to pack existential crisis into a tidy pop-rock cellophane.
He again teams with Horn here, bringing along a host of supporting musicians including Jeff Beck, Amp Fiddler, Harvey Mason Sr., William Orbit, Pino Palladino, Carmen Rizzo, and others. Centralized in their ranks is guitarist Gus Isidore who co-writes five tracks with him, keyboardist Jamie Muhoberac, and Prince & The Revolution’s Wendy & Lisa. The latter duo co-write and provide background on the album’s bookends. Where robotic closer “I’m Alive” assures hope and affirmation, “Bring It On” opens with chest-beating fearlessness.
Bravely, nothing on Seal II attempts to rehash “Crazy,” but all manage to match its invigorating energy even when confronting the sobering topic of mortality. With ominous pads and urgent guitars, lead single “Prayer for the Dying” starts as a trickle and rushes to a flood. Like brisk waters rising from the ankles to the knees, waist to the chest, it quickly envelops everything between the headphones in vibrating bass and tight, shuffling drums.
If not for serendipity, the project’s second single could have missed inclusion on the album entirely. Shortly after writing it in 1987, Seal became disenchanted with the composition and flung its cassette rough draft into a corner of his room. Years later, Horn took interest in the refusée. When Seal next heard the acapella demo translated into a full-on orchestral arrangement, Horn’s treatment made him believe in the song again. And that’s how fate saved “Kiss from a Rose” from obscurity. Initially, it stalled out around #20 and then dropped off the charts before reaching legendary heights as the biggest song of Seal’s career. One thing helping the baroque pop oddity was perhaps the lore surrounding it.
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A wild theory casts it as a thinly veiled ode to cocaine. “You remain my power, my pleasure, my pain / To me you’re like a growing addiction I can’t deny.” Believers latch on to lyrics like this, “Love remained a drug that’s the high and not the pill,” and “did you know that when it snows, my eyes become large?” The idea holds no more validity than the supposed connection The Wizard of Oz has to Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon. Seal himself couldn’t be less bothered about it.
Taking his cue from Carly Simon, creator of the enduring mystery “You’re So Vain,” Seal refuses to dispel its mythology. In the CD liner notes, all vagaries are framed as intentional. “My songs mean one thing to me and another to the listener,” he writes. “But that’s okay because I think it’s the general vibe of what I’m saying that is important and not the exact literal translation.”
Like “Kiss from a Rose,” “Don’t Cry” is also set in waltz time. Ironically, this consolation is likeliest to elicit tears. “Today I dreamed / Of friends I had before / And I wonder why / The ones who care don’t call anymore.” Though the choruses seek to dry your eyes, Seal’s delivery of these dolorous verses has the opposite effect. Pathos notwithstanding, this final single performed well on adult contemporary formats.
One is unlikely to encounter 7/8 time in popular music outside of Pink Floyd’s “Money” or the musical aisles between movements of Radiohead’s “Paranoid Android.” And yet Seal uses the atypical time signature on “Dreaming in Metaphors.” It’s wickedly effective at stirring introspection. “Someone lost their faith in seeking God,” he announces, the groove pacing back-and-forth like a nervous parent. “So they turned to the needle / Back to the cradle.”
Though hits and fan favorites congregate on its first half, Seal II does not become less interesting as it unfolds. Its looming severity gets reprieve on the pop frisk of “Newborn Friend.” Though late in sequence, cautious optimism interrupts the sorrow to “dance with a total stranger / and hold them in my arms.” Just then, a gentle house pulse comes bumping in beneath the chorus (“If I chant for happiness / Maybe that would make me feel better”). Its shimmering organ and relaxed guitar make it an obvious choice for radio release. Although a modest charter, it rose to #2 on the US Billboard Hot Dance Club Play chart.
The relentless search for truth on Seal II seems to mirror the self-excavating work of Joni Mitchell. Reflective big picture ballad “Fast Changes” opens with what she called “chords of inquiry” in its guitar intro leading to a blossoming vamp of tabla and Indian classical motifs. The urge to understand our world continues on the ever-climbing “People Asking Why.” In a curious spoken aside, Seal says “I’ve made my plans already” in a manner not unlike Mitchell would employ on “Coyote” from her wandering masterpiece Hejira (1976).
These calls to her artistry invoke the woman herself to appear on the deceptively quiet “If I Could.” While Seal handles most of the song himself, Mitchell joins on for a stairstepping climax to this haunting lullaby. Their briefly indulged chemistry here, gets revisited at length on her Grammy-winning Turbulent Indigo (1994) where they cover James Brown’s “How Do You Stop” in tandem.
In 1995, Seal II was acknowledged with well-deserved GRAMMY nominations for Album of the Year, Best Pop Vocal Album, and Best Male Pop Vocal Performance (“Prayer for the Dying”) though none yielded wins. All that would change when Joel Schumacher moved to include “Kiss from a Rose” in that summer’s blockbuster film Batman Forever. The high-profile placement sent the song to #1 on the US Billboard Hot 100 and the Top 10 of multiple international charts fueling multiplatinum sales. The following year, “Kiss from a Rose” brought GRAMMY nominations for Record of the Year, Song of the Year, and Best Male Pop Vocal Performance, sweeping all three categories.
Seal plumbed similar depths four years later on Human Being, again pairing with Horn. The two continued working together on Seal IV (2003), Soul 2 (2011) and 7 (2015). Arguably, every collaboration would be measured against Seal II, their finest and most synchronized work.
For being one of my favorites, I try to listen sparingly. Whatever pain I carry at any given time, Seal II can surface it whether timing is convenient or not. It is strong medicine that can also make difficulty tolerable to face. It is advised to use as directed: “I’m your sedative. Take a piece of me whenever you can.”
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