Erykah Badu Credit: paige parson


We’ve all been there, in the postbreakup impact crater, where you’ve got nothing at your disposal but selective memory and the conviction that you can’t live until the person who rejected you takes you back. Erykah Badu’s latest, Return of the Ankh, is a guided tour of the crater, which is deep but not terribly wide—there’s just enough room at the bottom for her and her tears.

This is the second installment in Badu’s New Amerykah series. The outward-looking New Amerykah Part One: 4th World War, which she released in 2008 after a five-year absence, was a comeback record, largely made on her laptop—a huge departure from the big-budget production of her earlier albums. Personal and political, it represented Badu’s re-engagement with the social consciousness of hip-hop, which hip-hop itself seemed to have mislaid. Her eyes were wide open, staring in disbelief, and her care for the world showed itself in her sadness and disgust at the state of it—she was riled up about life, love, and the perversion of dreams in Bush’s America.

Return of the Ankh is the polar opposite of 4th World War: it’s full of self-pity, bathos, and baby baby please. On “Love” she sings, “Just tell me you love me / I like it / You know it / So do it / C’mon / C’mon.” Her voice is flat and she sounds deflated, like she hasn’t slept in a day or two. “I’m about to go insane,” she promises. For six minutes this goes on—absent a hook, she just rides a low-idling riff into the fade-out.

And it’s not an anomaly. On almost every song Badu parks and meditates on a sample or beat, lampin’ on a gauzy keyboard riff or jazzily ooh-aahing her way to the end of the track. As unpleasant as it is to be denied a pop payoff (and in most cases a clear differentiation between verse and chorus), this denial is key to the album’s artistic success: the music is a perfect analogue to the miserable emotional stasis of the newly and involuntarily single. Listening to it is like being on the other end of the phone while a friend sifts through the ashes of her broken relationship. There’s no assuring her that she’s lucky to be done with such a shithead. There’s no sensible advice you can offer. There’s no clicking over to the other line. You just have to listen until she’s done and hope she finds her own way out.

Badu does break up this aimless, airless drift with “Window Seat” (the lead single, the one with the naked-in-Dealey Plaza video). It’s the most songlike song on Return of the Ankh, and though it’s just as dreamy as the rest of the album, it’s not as dreary. Badu’s still tangled up in her need, but she’s looking for an escape. Here and on the album opener, “20 Feet Tall,” she imagines herself whole, looking back not just to when her lover loved her but to before that, when she existed independent of the relationship. But those are the only exceptions—and an album that’s 80 percent sad reminiscing and lovesick mourning isn’t exactly what you want from Erykah Badu. She sounds like a shell of the artist we knew from Mama’s Gun—an animated woman with her missteps in perspective who promised us “a brighter day.”