Review Summary: Jackpot for Lamp die-hards, fluffy cushions for everyone else
As part of the acclaimed jazz-/lounge-/bossa-/sophisiti- pop trio Lamp, Kaori Sakakibara has her name on more syrupy comfort music than most readers are likely to have the stamina or appetite to ever slurp through. Quite distinct from the zaniness of the Shibuya Kei movement that they emerged from, Lamp eschew pastiche with their cocktail of all things easy listening and downplay playfulness, demanding that you either take their cosmopolitan daydreams in earnest or simply doze off. Now, I enjoy Lamp in small doses – their flagship record
For Lovers is generously succinct, and 2014's
Yume packs a neat trove of standalone highlights – yet on prolonged exposure, the line between their sublime and their stodge becomes increasingly treacherous.
Note as such that this is
not a review for the latest Lamp album
Dusk to Dawn, nor is one like to be forthcoming – while fundamentally pleasant, that record is so overlong and oversaturated that its various charms smush together into something cloying and my attention droops too much to analyse it further in good faith. Sakakibara's vocal interplay with her male counterpart Yusuke Nagai wafts over me as some combination of dreary and interchangeable where it should be central dynamic, and rather than split tedious hairs over whether this a superficial misjudgement or a cogent observation, we will be taking the lateral route today!
Minuano is Sakakibara's side-project with multi-instrumentalist Takeru Ogata, on which she handles sole vocal duties over tracks that, subtract a little guitar and add a little e-piano, are arguably more Lamp than Lamp themselves. We hear this on the latest output,
Butterfly Dream (2019): this record's breezy jazz-pop here is arguably lighter on carbs and heavier and sugar than Lamp, but it is very much rooted in the same appeal, with its opulent chord onslaughts, intricate arrangements, and emphasis on Sakakibara's airy vocal stylings, weightless and breathless as steam on a mirror. Highlight tracks emerge where she steps forth from her usual tones to croon a stronger melody ("Soda Mizu no Omoide" (#4)) or when her aqueous backdrop yields enough energy for her to ride off ("Ryūsei Kitan" (#8) provides a more dynamic foundation for her understated hooks).
As with Lamp, tracks where both the vocals and arrangement coast off one another blur into indistinction, and
Butterfly Dream is packed with these. It comes as far more homogenous than it should as a result: "Shinkirō" (#9)'s sparkling bossa nova and the upbeat "Dance" (#12) have plenty of standalone appeal to offer an active listener, yet both are too demure to punctuate such concertedly drowsy album-long pacing. Sakakibara proves at numerous points that she has the personality and grace to carry a record herself, yet these tracks are practically tailor-made to make as few demands of their audience as possible and her delicate powers of magnetism are too diffuse to command active attraction on their own.
As such,
Butterfly Dream struggles to translate into more than situational ballast – a recurrent issue for Lamp, though compounded by this record's lightweight songwriting (which, to its credit, never drags its heels quite so much as Lamp at their weakest). Getting the most out of this record will likely be contingent on doing your own legwork and relocating its choicest cuts to a more engaging setting: with the pep and cheer of heyday Shibuya Kei on one side and the overbearing exuberance of the contemporary Yakousei trend on the other, even a picky listener is hardly pressed for choice when it comes to mix-building. Sakakibara and Ogata's spindly comfort tunes sit well against either landscape – it's just unfortunate that they are so prone to disappear within their own.
