Sage Francis "Human the Death Dance" (Epitaph)
By Tim Den
Wednesday. May 09, 12:26 PM
Twisted, Dali-like montages of one man's darkest innards.

“Pop pop goes the weasel, the weasel / drop drop goes the easel, the easel / this is hip hop for the people, the people / stop calling it emo, waaaaaah.” And with that chorus, Sage Francis has effectively made it a moot point for me to revisit the argument I put forth in my review of A Healthy Distrust. Indeed, the days of labeling Francis and his peers’ brand of street smart yet intellectually stimulating and introspective hip hop / poetry as “emo” seem but a distant memory now, what with each perspective artist (Atmosphere, Busdriver, El-P, most of Anticon’s nutcases, etc.) having proved long ago that they are beyond such easy categorization. So where to, then? For Francis, the road has led him inward once again. Boasting material that’s “more personal than ever” (at least according to the bio), Human the Death Dance is a record with a deceiving title, focusing more on Francis the individual than the doomed nature of the human race. Or, perhaps, Francis is using his own self-immolation as a microcosm of the entire specie’s inevitable downfall? Such speculation is what has made Francis one of the most exciting MCs today, and he does not fail us on Human the Death Dance.

As always, one golden line after another destroy everything from hip hop as a bought-and-sold mentality (“I know a kid who thinks he’s hip hop cuz he buys it / I know a kid who thinks he’s hip hop cuz he doesn’t buy shit”), the aftermath of emotional torture (“And it’s already a mess, the dust piles like your junk mail / so I eat away the depression and crush the scale”), to domestic misery (“I’m the heir to that domestic death sentence… they confused prison for a bed and breakfast), filled with possibly more metaphorical / surreal imagery than ever before. It seems like the deeper Francis digs through his inner caverns, the more his words become twisted, Dali-like montages. “Eating words with a forked tongue / now the grumble of my stomach’s got the thump of a war drum.” “My right eye is sunrise, the left is sunset / the moonshine ain’t got me drunk yet.” But that’s exactly what we love from him: the escape from everyday mundane prose that spells out everything for the listener. Human the Death Dance is the chronicles of one man’s trip through his darkest regions, decked out in thought-provoking descriptions that require you to grasp their slippery meanings. If hip hop was ever a call and response, it happens here: you have to respond and decipher what Francis beautifully and hauntingly puts forth.

The only negative thing about Human the Death Dance is that, toward the end, some of the tempos and production become a bit too homogenized. “Keep Moving,” “Black Out on White Night,” and “Hell of a Year” all contain similar melancholic feels and rhythms, canceling out the uniqueness of the lyrics to a certain extent and almost blurring the three songs into one. Same with “Good Fashion” and “Water Line”: both contain absolutely incredible verses, but the minor-based progressions make ‘em feel like two parts of one song. For lyrics that are so groundbreaking, the production choices seem dull in comparison.

But no matter, cuz Human the Death Dance as a whole still reeks of “hip hop record of the year.” Anyone who’s not afraid of weighty subject matter and inventive delivery will find a treasure trove of substance here to revisit time and again.
www.sagefrancis.net
www.epitaph.com

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Tim Den

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