The opening moments of MamaР Р†Р вЂљРІвЂћСћs Gun sound much less like anything off of BaduР Р†Р вЂљРІвЂћСћs first record and instead resonate unmistakably in the vein of two other releases from earlier that year, CommonР Р†Р вЂљРІвЂћСћs fourth studio album, Like Water for Chocolate, and DР Р†Р вЂљРІвЂћСћAngeloР Р†Р вЂљРІвЂћСћs game-changing Voodoo. What cuts through the noise is a burst of sonic muscle-pure soul energy compressed into 10 initial seconds: the joyful ensemble (Chinah Blac and YahZarah) bellowing in Rufus-meets-Brand New Heavies unison as longtime collaborators Ahmir Р Р†Р вЂљРЎС™ QuestloveР Р†Р вЂљРЎСљ Thompson on drums, James Poyser on piano, Pino Palladino on bass, and Jeff Lee Johnson on guitar lay down a robust opening riff that sounds definitive and defiant. Those voices open the recordР Р†Р вЂљРІвЂћСћs first side in a cacophony of whispers as Badu admonishes herself about a laundry-list of unfinished tasks, nagging fears, and floating enigmas swirling through her mind (Р Р†Р вЂљРЎС™I have to write a songР Р†Р вЂљР’В¦ I have to remember to turn on the ovenР Р†Р вЂљР’В¦ warm up the apartmentР Р†Р вЂљР’В¦ MalcolmР Р†Р вЂљР’В¦ MalcolmР Р†Р вЂљР’В¦ I need to take my vitaminР Р†Р вЂљРЎСљ). In contrast to Baduizm, MamaР Р†Р вЂљРІвЂћСћs Gun offers a more pointed, sustained, and grounded statement about what it means to get tired of waiting out and wading through the wretchedness of urban blight, the perpetual threat of police brutality and lethal force, the baggage from bad relationships and the sometimes oppressive voices inside oneР Р†Р вЂљРІвЂћСћs own head.

But MamaР Р†Р вЂљРІвЂћСћs Gun turned an important page as she set out to pair songs that evoked the art of exquisite and romantically-charged lingering and hanging (the Р Р†Р вЂљРЎС™urban hang suite,Р Р†Р вЂљРЎСљ as Maxwell would call it on his own debut album from 1996) alongside songs about being fed up with stasis, isolation, restriction and aborted dreams. To be rooted in the here and now while also resolutely and speculatively elsewhere-this was Erykah BaduР Р†Р вЂљРІвЂћСћs distinct gambit early in her career. Her many references to the Five Percent Nation and Afrocentric cosmologies on Baduizm announced the arrival of new black nationalist soul, steeped in astrologically configured wisdom (Р Р†Р вЂљРЎС™My cypher keeps moving like a rolling stoneР Р†Р вЂљРЎСљ) and headed toward an Afrofuturist destination to be determined. Р Р†Р вЂљРЎС™Oh my my my IР Р†Р вЂљРІвЂћСћm feeling high,Р Р†Р вЂљРЎСљ she sings with the distinct horn-like phrasings that brought Billie Holiday comparisons, Р Р†Р вЂљРЎС™my moneyР Р†Р вЂљРІвЂћСћs gone, IР Р†Р вЂљРІвЂћСћm all alone/The world keeps turningР Р†Р вЂљР’В¦Р Р†Р вЂљРЎСљ It all came together in BaduР Р†Р вЂљРІвЂћСћs sound and style: the image of a sister who couldnР Р†Р вЂљРІвЂћСћt be bothered, who couldnР Р†Р вЂљРІвЂћСћt care less about the time (Р Р†Р вЂљРЎС™I think I need a cup of teaР Р†Р вЂљР’В¦Р Р†Р вЂљРЎСљ), yet who simultaneously recognized and paid reverence to black time, that which is past and that which is still to come. Р Р†Р вЂљРЎС™On & On,Р Р†Р вЂљРЎСљ BaduР Р†Р вЂљРІвЂћСћs breakthrough single from her 1997 smash debut Baduizm, became an anthem for this kind of indelible, cool-breeze, fitfulness.

Her music brimmed with the suggestion-albeit a conflicted one-to wait for it. The tracks she was laying down extended what had quickly become her trademark vibe: that of deep-groove tarrying, wrestling with time, pushing up against and pulling at the beat but also lingering in the pocket while delivering pithy observations about temporal lag and the will to move. When she stepped into New YorkР Р†Р вЂљРІвЂћСћs historic Electric Lady studios in 1999 and began recording her much-anticipated sophomore album, Erykah Badu had her finger to the wind. Long spells of anxiety and watchfulness would punctuate the year 2000, a pivotal period that sometimes gets lost in the shuffle when trying to pinpoint the origins of new millennium unrest and epic uncertainty. But the phenomenon of collective waiting-to see whether the recent impeachment of a president would lead to the end of the Clinton good-times era, to see whether the courts would order the family of six-year-old Elian Gonzalez to return him to Cuba across the Cold War divide, to see whether the officers who fired 41 shots into unarmed African immigrant Amadou Diallo would do any time at all, to see whether hanging chads would tip the balance of a presidential election-all that waiting would roll out across the entire year in waves of succession. That the calamity didnР Р†Р вЂљРІвЂћСћt drop in the form of a Roland Emmerich summer blockbuster sparked an initial sigh of relief. They were waiting in the wee moments of the new year for ominous, Y2K catastrophe to hit, for worldwide web grids to collapse, for large scale chaos of another order to afflict the globe. From the moment PrinceР Р†Р вЂљРІвЂћСћs party ran out of time and the ball dropped in Times Square to signal a new millennium, people were waiting.

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