Story of Beyoncé in Lemonade
Lemonade is the sixth studio album by BeyoncĂ©. On her sixth solo album, BeyoncĂ© Knowles Carter starts rolling mid-scene: Sheâs just realized that her husband is cheating on her. The surrounding context is familiar to anyone who follows popular culture. BeyoncĂ© and Jay Z are the most famous musical couple on the planet, and BeyoncĂ© in particular is in a great place. With 2013âs BeyoncĂ©, MJ-level talent met pop-perfectionism in a moment that defined album-cycle disruption; moreover, it was a victory lap Bey took as pop feminism's reigning goddess. I argue that BeyoncĂ©âs political bent takes a back seat to personal matters; these are, though, expansively contextualized.
The albumâs title comes from BeyoncĂ©âs 90-year-old grandmother-in-law, Hattie White, who endorsed the old epigram that since life served her lemons, she made lemonade; a testament to female endurance and pragmatism. What unfolds is an album about male-pattern infidelity and female self-examination. That cycle can be broken with forgiveness, BeyoncĂ© implies â but not before she breaks stuff with a baseball bat on Hold Up. With a sassy dancehall lilt, Beyonce unexpectedly quotes a Yeah Yeah Yeahs track, a cocktail of warmth and fury. âWhatâs worse, looking jealous or crazy?â she wonders. She appears, for half of the album, to be as mad as hell at Jay Z. It is tremendous.
At its basest level, then, Lemonade is a gossip rag, as art-directed by a Vogue stylist whoâs smoked the budget. In a series of sumptuous vignettes, in which Serena Williams gyrates and a range of other famous black female figures make visual cameos, BeyoncĂ© appears to launder her business in public. Rumours of a rift in the marriage ricocheted around the internet in 2014 after Solange Knowles, BeyoncĂ©âs hipper little sister, attacked Jay Z in a lift. Now BeyoncĂ© names names, regrets the ring, and threatens to leave if he âtry that shit againâ.
The songs, though, are not just prurient catnip, but actual dynamite â a dazzling series of edgy, but tuneful collaborations with a diverse array of guests. BeyoncĂ©âs hurt is articulated magnificently, often quoting Somali-British poet Warsan Shire, who doesnât mince words like âmensesâ. You can hear the confident hand of Jack White on the superb digital-analogue confection Donât Hurt Yourself corrects where BeyoncĂ© unleashes a righteous hip-hop blues-woman holler. Even heavier and freakier with organ is Freedom, a declaration of intent that features a typically electrifying Kendrick Lamar verse.
After BeyoncĂ© makes nearly half an albumâs worth of glorious rage songs directed at an unfaithful partner, she gives it a little time and remembers that she was raised to value hard work and spirituality. And so, she canât give up on her marriage, the same one she spent her last two albums celebrating. BeyoncĂ© even kind of sells it, surmising with a tear-inducing sincerity on relaxed-fit soul jam âAll Nightâ that ânothing real can be threatened.â Itâs an easy platitude to make, but itâs also an extremely BeyoncĂ© way of looking at things. For a perfectionist who controls her image meticulously, BeyoncĂ© is obsessed with the notion of realness. Thatâs the biggest selling point of an album like Lemonade, but thereâs a quality to it that also invites skepticism: That desire to basically art-direct your own sobbing self-portrait to make sure your mascara smears in the most perfectly disheveled way. But who cares what's "real" when the music delivers a truth you can use.
https://www.nytimes.com/2016/04/25/arts/music/beyonce-lemonade.html











