JACK HARLOW - Monica

He seemed to have hung up his microphone for good, Jackman Thomas Harlow, yet another white rapper as easy to sell to the mainstream as he was ready to be discarded once the hype died down. Because unlike other African-American genres that have by now become foundational pillars of Anglophone music, hip-hop keeps resisting vampirization – or rather, once the shock value wears off in the face of country-boy faces decked out in Jordans and gold chains (in Harlow's case, three albums and a handful of singles fired off in quick succession), listeners loyal to the genre don't quite know what to make of these half-baked packaged products.
Jack is aware of this precarious standing, even if he doesn't like to show it; some clips from his Popcast interview, released to coincide with this album, have already set the more attentive corners of the internet ablaze. He certainly didn't pull his punches: "Monica", his fourth album still under Atlantic, was recorded at Electric Lady in New York, the historic cradle of the Soulquarians, in an attempt to replicate that vibrant neo-soul soul rich in blues, jazz and funk, alongside a rich parterre of collaborators. Needless to say, the output of a pop-rapper raised on a horse farm in Kentucky has little in common with what The Roots, D'Angelo and Erykah Badu did in those very same studios back in the late 1990s.

But during the interview mentioned above, Harlow is quick to point out that he doesn't have the physique du rôle to make a new "Voodoo" – "Monica" is an avowedly ego-free listen, far removed from the swagger of his early rap days. Jack also admits he's not a great singer, and the many session musicians in the studio were brought in to compensate for his vocal limitations – and it shows, because the most glaring issue with "Monica" lies precisely in the author's half-hearted sighs, functional enough for a distracted listen but ultimately monotonous and colorless.
Some moments could owe a debt to Jamie Woon (the elegant chamber r&b of "Prague", the smooth melancholy of "Living Alone") or Lewis Taylor (the bloodless "My Winter"), but Jack simply doesn't have the right register – the gap becomes glaring when soul singer James Savage sings the interlude "Move Along" all by himself. It's better, if anything, to think of strictly pre-"Blurred Lines" Robin Thicke on the existential tone of "Against The Grain".
Sure, "Trade Places" is delightful and comes with one of those incidental music-video clips in the style of early Jill Scott that underscores its mood with arthouse delicacy. On "All Of My Friends" Jack finally finds the right interpretive verve, thanks to a bittersweet lyric that clearly means a lot to him, while the closing "Say Hello", the longest track on the record, manages to build a progressive richness in the style of Oscar Jerome.

If Justin Bieber can turn to alternative r&b with the help of Dijon and mk.gee, Harlow has Mustafa, Ravyn Lenae and Omar Apollo on backing vocals, and even Robert Glasper on piano for a couple of tracks, all working together without stepping on each other's toes for a listen that's never thrilling but is lean and compact – unlike the overblown sagas "Swag" and "Swag II", in fact, the whole of "Monica" clocks in at just twenty-eight minutes.
Just enough to bring Harlow back, if not to the top of the charts, at least to the public's attention after three years away, perhaps earning some fresh critical goodwill for attempting a different card from his usual hand, notwithstanding the thorny conversations about cultural appropriation of these stylistic tropes that will inevitably dog him this time around. Either way, we're talking about an extremely light listen – during that same Popcast interview, Jack reiterated his wish to put out something pleasant and free of friction, perfect for background play in big coffee chains like Starbucks. If he says so himself, we certainly won't be the ones to lecture him further about it.

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22/03/2026