Goblin literally picks up where Bastard left off. Bastard, you may recall, ended with Tyler asking, "Where's the trigger? I'll let the bullet play hero." The first words on Goblin finds T.C., Tyler's alter-ego/conscience/therapist calling his bluff. "You wouldn't do that?" says T.C. in his signature husky voice. "Kill yourself or anyone else? You don't even have the balls to do that."
Throughout the album, Dr. T.C. functions as the sane side of a bruised and conflicted teenage boy. Where he played a more enabling role on Bastard, T.C. provides a buffer against Irrational Tyler on Goblin, the guardian angel to Tyler's devilish disguise. T.C. is also a thread of consciousness that weaves the songs on Goblin together as one cohesive force.
All the distinctive themes introduced on Bastard make cameos here. The galumphing thump, the cinematic wail, and the dystopic themes are sharp reminders that this is an Odd Future album. There are no happy moments here. No chipper snares. No fuzzy keys. And definitely no sugar-crested hooks. This kid wouldn't shake hands with happy at gunpoint.
Goblin is fueled by the same me-against-the-world attitude. Tyler bleeds his heart on his notepad. His M.I.A. father gets a generous dose of vitriol. Wack rappers and Bruno Mars are not safe from his wrath. He's now added a new category: mud-slingers who gripe about his violent lyrics. The increasingly pugnacious diatribe puts the Wolf Gang leader in a fighting stance for much of the album.
Highlights include "Sandwitches," the rousing jawn they played with great elan on Jimmy Fallon awhile back, the weird and wonderful "Yonkers," "Analog," "Fish," and "Tron Cat." Few songs on the album rival the intensity of "Yonkers."
Tyler is truly great at communicating his ideas effectively, a job made easier by his crisp flow and ear-grabbing delivery. Sadly, the album is light on fully fleshed out narratives, if you want to cavil at those things. Instead, we get an assortment of boasts and metaphors. The best attempt at storytelling is "Her," but even that's bogged down by a silly Shakespearean rhyme scheme.
While Goblin packs more dystopic elements than you could fit in a Kubrick film, it comes with a disclaimer. "Don't do anything I say on this record; it's all fiction," Tyler warns on a random disclaimer. It boggles the mind.
Isn't it obvious that Tyler, The Creator isn't out there patrolling the streets of L.A. with a checklist of rape candidates? Do people really think he has a collection of human heads? When have you known any artist to renounce their art? Did Marilyn Manson ever renounce his art? Did N.W.A. ever renounce their art? Did Wu-Tang ever renounce for their art? Did Eminem ever renounce his art? Did Tarantino ever renounce his art? Did someone put a gun to Tyler's head to make this happen? Will highly fictionalized rap ever be as acceptable as movies? Does the idea of a young, black teenager expressing violence on wax drives mainstream white America cuckoo banana crackers?
When Tyler says "White America, don't blame me," it's a sad moment for hip-hop. It begs the question, "Why does hip-hop have to always apologize? "Yonkers" is one of the most creative hip-hop videos in the last five years. You don't apologize for that. Whether or not you agree with the violent themes, you cannot deny the double standards. Whatever the excuse, the disclaimer detracts from the music. It's akin to being fully immersed in a thriller only to see the lead actor break the illusion and look the viewer directly in the eye. It jolts you right back to reality.
There are two categories of artists who espouse provocative themes: those who are caught off guard by negative attention and those who are aware of the larger ramifications but are immune to criticism. Tyler is caught somewhere between the two. He anticipates the reaction, but he can't decide whether he wants to be dark and disturbing or safe and successful. It's a distraction that detracts from the listening experience, even if the reasoning is justifiable on some level.
The most significant stride seems to be that a lot of thinking went into this album. Tyler is way more sensible and mature than he's let on. The hesitation in his approach is tied to the absence of his best friend and Odd Future teammate Thebe "Earl" Kgositsile. Earl's dragon lady of a mother shipped him off to a military academy after she heard the 16 year-old's drug-fueled mixtape. Watching his best friend go away for the same themes that drive his own music must have had some impact on Tyler. Earl's stern, dragon lady of a mother is a constant reminder of the opposition to his music.
