It's been a while since I listened to Tricky's third album, Angels With Dirty Faces, and felt comfortable with all all of it. This morning, while attempting to clear a strange post-NyQuil haze with Red Bull and coffee, everything clicked into place like it hasn't since the first few times I listened to it the week it was released.
At his best, Tricky's albums are filthy sex albums. It doesn't matter what he's rasping on about, his best records are made for making the beast with two backs. (I could have just gone with the obvious curse word there but a childish euphemism seemed like so much more fun, especially considering the frame of mind I was in when this track hit my headphones for the first time at 7 a.m. this morning.)
There's nothing deep about this song. No meaning. No well-stolen sample or clever reference or anything but what it is - an ode to a woman who, ahem, takes care of her man.
The rest of the album, while it seemed like a somewhat bloated overreach after two perfect albums that each had it's own blunted sexually violent tension, actually fits in well. Angels With Dirty Faces is grimy. It's the underworld that Tricky started touching on Pre-Millenium Tension and wished for on Maxinquaye. Amazing. Now I think I need a shower.
Buy Angels With Dirty Faces and the rest of Tricky's discography at Shockhound.