![]() Marvel that they ever had a conversation, let alone shared a hit song. (Imagine Eminem, whose sampling of her on “Stan” made her ubiquitous, braying that same line. Soon after, Dido sings her harshest and most jarring lyric: “I’ve found a way to let you go/It’s gonna rip your heart out,” she offers tranquilly, with all the malice of a kitten gif, skipping up into falsetto for a dash of whimsy. When she sings of “Hurricanes,” those frightening and upending sources of power, she is really asking to stand by her partner forever, so they might face them together a delicate, late-’90s synth beat (from her brother and regular collaborator, Rollo Armstrong) offers up a few light gales, but nothing so forceful as the title could conjure. Her most stunning asset is still her voice-a glossy, palatial purr, fraying at the edges, nodding clearly to Enya and Dolores O’Riordan of the Cranberries. Dido’s fifth album, Still on My Mind, guides her even more into the path of serenity and easy listening electronics, with odes to marriage and motherhood that bask in their comforts. It’s extremely mature, in other words-not always the sexiest bait in pop music, but a balm all its own. What her music lacks in heat, it makes up for in reliable serenity-the sense that she’s already done her emotional heavy-lifting offstage, and the song she offers is the coda, not the conduit. Her breakup ballads simmer with loss and melancholy, but no regret or indecision sweeping love anthems have no runway left for the chase, only snug contentment and bright promises to live up to another’s faith. Her songs still feel like the exhalation after all the action happens in Dido songs, the tumult has been resolved by the time she records. The London singer may be one of the UK’s best-selling artists of all time, with her keening pop mantras “ Thank You” and “ White Flag” still reliable soundtracks in Tescos the nation over, but her even-keel approach feels removed from the volatile acrobatics and catharsis of Adele, Amy Winehouse, Ellie Goulding, and her other peers of the past two decades. It seems Salt Ashes still has a ways to go before she finds her voice and cements her creative vision-last year, an online magazine begged the question: “Who TF is Salt Ashes?” One album later, and we still have no clue.Six years after her last album, Girl Who Got Away, and 20 years after her ubiquitous debut, No Angel, Dido’s version of pop is still most distinguishable for what it lacks: drama. With its sterile production and unwillingness to push the envelope, Killing My Mind is too safe to work as an alt record, and its weak songwriting makes it fail as a pop one to boot. A pop record shouldn’t be this difficult to recall, even after multiple listens. A large swath of the album is unmemorable-not just the melodies, but also the way they’re performed, like on the chorus of “Body Says,” sung in a candy-coated tone that’s sanitized to the point of anonymity. Other than the opener and the title track, there’s nary an earworm to be found. But after this, the hooks are few and far between. Things begin promising enough with the opening track, “Lucy,” a smokey, neon-drenched club banger complete with hand claps, a stabbing synth line and an intoxicating chorus. But as straightforward pop, it doesn’t fare much better. So Killing My Mind isn’t much of an alt-pop album-fine. At their worst, they sound straight-up goofy, like on “Mad Girl,” when she sings, “No one fucks me like myself/ She’s a mad girl/ I’m a mad girl.” At their best, her attempts at edgy lyrics fall just as flat. They’re never sustained, and they’re never allowed to actually push the boundaries of the pop song.Įven worse, the production is so sterile that it dilutes any semblance of bite or menace that might be culled from these tracks, and renders them unable to signify darkness. The sputtering, arena rock-sized drum break on “I’m Not Scared to Die” recalls the industrial leanings of Depeche Mode, as do the fleeting bursts of guitar noise that punctuate “Too Many Times.” But this is the most these moments ever amount to-fleeting bursts. On the alt front, this record fails simply because Salt Ashes plays it too safe, flirting with edgier sounds without fully committing. Call it alt-pop, or call it plain old pop- Killing My Mind is unmemorable either way. The problem with her latest album, Killing My Mind, is that its pop songcraft is just as lacking as its purported alt inclinations. “Pop” isn’t a dirty word, and if Salt Ashes (real name Veiga Sanchez) wants to situate herself in that lane, even if she won’t completely own up to it, then good for her. In and of itself, this isn’t a bad thing-slick, synthetic pop has its uses, and it goes without saying that plenty of great music falls under the umbrella.
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