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No matter what industry shit-stirrers say, self-loving supplement writers write or international governments allege about
Maya Arulpragasam, there's one thing that, thankfully, they just can't do: shut her up. As if anybody had dared to advise (rather than
force) her to quieten down a bit, Maya, with her third record /\/\ /\ Y /\, is making one hell of a brutal racket. And while it
doesn't really need saying, there's something joyously brilliant about that. If every action has an equal and opposite
reaction then the quite sizeable polito-pop agitprop impact that M.I.A. has made in the short time she has been around is
clearly starting to catch up on the London-born Sri Lankan.
Predictably, her continued rise brings her closer to - and in some cases, in contact with - those that will happily plot her
fall, but like the woman herself, /\/\ /\ Y /\ makes her "What the fuck!" retort in the best possible way. Like her or not,
Maya's ego has yet to supersede her talent and /\/\ /\ Y /\ is the goose-stepping, inviolable proof of that. And the weird
thing? It's probably not as good as Kala. But the best thing? This is Maya's third set of Fuck You fingers to a world of
reactionary bastards that can't wait for her to disappear.
Thanks to more visa restrictions (on this occasion the American government chose to keep her in the country rather than
forbidding her to enter it), Maya, that freest of free spirits, was kept fairly immobile during the making of this record.
Standing to some sort of music logic then, /\/\ /\ Y /\ harbours the sound of an artist caged, the near-continuous barrage of
noise like the sound of an inmate crashing a metal pipe interminably against the prison bars. There's enough tension, either
unwrapped or unwound, within /\/\ /\ Y /\'s walls to keep the writers of HBO's Oz smiling.
And although the US government only managed to keep Maya penned within its national borders, for the daughter of a freedom
fighter that presumably felt something like incarceration. Born Free, the Phat Planet-inspired, amphetamised marching band
stomper is the album's most obvious expression of Maya's desire to break out. But it hardly ends there. During Lovealot, Maya
grunts: "They told me this was a free country / but now it feels like a chicken factory / I feel cooped up I wanna bust free
/ I got nothing to lose if you get me," before fearlessly melding her plight with that of the causes of the Taliban and
Moscow suicide bombers.
It's a tension that fuels at least half the record. If Kala is characterised by its flighty, globe-trodden freeness, /\/\
/\ Y /\ is insular-sounding, neurotic and actively troublesome. The black and electric walls of Maya's conflicted, overactive
mind are the only real geography here. It takes some colour away, but there's more texture, more grit; more to figure out
about Maya the human being, though there's less of her cultural hopping to enthuse over. It's less digestible but it's
tauter, more metallic and yes, industrial.
After The Message's Internet = Big Brother conspiracies, Steppin' Up opens the record with a noisy morass of whizzing
electric wrenches, metallic prangs and Maya sounding Missy Elliott fierce. "You know who I am / I run this fucking
club," Maya snorts. It's hard to disagree. Maya's mastery of engineered electro-organic sound, be it as anarchic as /\/\ /\ Y
/\ can sometimes be or when employed with more restraint, can feel utterly peerless. Couple this with wordplay that will
amuse some and inspire others, and it gives the album's aggressive tracks a uniquely global potency. And sure, Maya's
politics may be a little ambiguous, even questionable; but her highest-impact agitprop messages communicate instantly and
universally - their provocative punch augmented even more by the sledgehammering breakbeats of tracks like Smack My Bitch Up
relative, Story To Be Told.
And while there are some loosely pop moments - the sort made for clubs (the electro Justin Timberlake and Lady
Gaga-influenced XXXO) or iPods (the Spectral Display-sampling reggae jig, It Takes A Muscle) - there are no
obvious radio playlist candidates. A Paper Planes equivalent is conspicuous by its absence. Intentional? Probably. Just when
it appears that M.I.A. is gunning for the mainstream, she jacks up her AK-47 and shoots black paint into the lens.
Made during pregnancy and early motherhood, /\/\ /\ Y /\ - as odd as it is to say - is, occasionally, hormonally
imbalanced. There's a real sense of vulnerability and affection, amid the racket. These human faces, which are either
completely absent from previous M.I.A. records or so shielded by Maya's lyrical missile-proof vest, define /\/\ /\ Y /\ as
much as the noise and the gripes over a so-called "digital ruckus" that connects our online activity to government control.
On It Takes A Muscle, a pensive Maya asks for someone to "kill my pain / put me on my feet again." It Iz What It Iz feels
almost resigned and emotionally morose, even a little frightened. Whether due to her movement restrictions or the death
threats Maya and her family faced, /\/\ /\ Y /\ is both moody and contemplative. Maya's sweet chirps on Space are a curious,
if ironically soft way to end an album that is, more often than not, a truculent brute.
Every action has an equal and opposite reaction, right? Right. M.I.A.'s back, louder and more renegade than ever.
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