I mean, she went and called the thing “B’Day,” like a star who knows she was born. I remember hearing these songs for the first time and feeling as slinky and swaggering as this music. She all but resorts to violence and makes funnies (“pat-pat-pat your weave, ladies”). Beyoncé angles for the synths and drum machines to frolic with all the horns, Latin percussion and credited use of a ney. What’s essential about it, though, is its author’s determination to have it be more than some pop singer’s next album. And do I know why she’s been photographed for the cover to evoke Brigitte Bardot if Bardot missed the last train out of Stepford? I really don’t. And yes, Jay-Z’s two appearances still sound like a formula replicated rather than a partnership forged.
Her singing hadn’t yet gone through the puberty of playing Etta James. It’s a parade of bangers about lust and its discontents, about how to take a nightspot over with Naomi Campbell’s walk. “B’Day” doesn’t have the split-persona nerve of “Sasha Fierce” or that damn-the-charts idiosyncrasy of “4,” the first of her masterwork trio. This album’s the one that culminates with the ninth track (of an efficient 12): That would be “Irreplaceable,” the “ Wanted Dead or Alive” of “better call Tyrone” balladry.
“Déjà Vu” spreads into “Get Me Bodied,” which hops to “Suga Mama” then “Upgrade U” and “Ring the Alarm,” which leads to “Kitty Kat,” “Freakum Dress” and “Green Light.” Different rooms on Single Ladies Night at the biggest club in Stankonia.
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