Nick Murphy - Missing Link EP

Pitchfork 62

Reinvention is a risky proposition for any artist, riskier still for Chet Faker. In just five years, the award-winning, chart-topping singer/songwriter went from an unknown with a cheeky moniker to Australia’s most popular independent artist this side of Tame Impala. After relocating from Melbourne to New York in 2014, with hopes of learning something about himself, Nick Murphy announced a new direction for his neo-soul music. “There’s an evolution happening and I wanted to let you know where it’s going,” he tweeted in September of last year, underlining that he dropped the alias Chet Faker for his given name. Years after his debut album, Built on Glass, it was a surprising announcement from a wildly successful artist who had every reason to stay in his lane.

Our first glimpse of the new Nick Murphy arrived with “Fear Less,” a confident shift towards electronic pop tinkering à la Moderat or Bonobo. The eight-minute “Stop Me (Stop You),” co-produced by Darkside’s Dave Harrington, came two months later, and its uplifting vocal introduced some stadium-sized emotion to Murphy’s changing sound. His new tracks were a far cry from the bubbly, sensual Chet Faker hits “Gold” and “1998,” but even as he dabbled in more adventurous styles, Murphy kept playing to the cheap seats. It gave the sense that, despite all the talk of evolution, maybe the name change was more about shedding a moniker Murphy didn’t exactly want in the first place. Or maybe it had to do with his streak as a finicky, conflicted perfectionist, someone who is said to have scrapped his debut album twice and often writes multiple versions of his songs. Was a radical transformation just around the corner, or would the evolution be more understated?

On Missing Link, Murphy’s first record released under his given name, the music remains uncertain of its direction. Granted, all previous allusions to change ring true, but they’re realized as a mixed bag of mostly underdeveloped ideas and polished demos. The sultry collaboration “Your Time,” described by Murphy as an “old song” he wanted to put out “before it was too late,” first appeared in rough form on Kaytranada’s 0.001% mixtape. It has a fair amount in common with Built on Glass—including an engrossing vocal performance and moody but subtle hooks—though it proves to be a false start. As does the needless interlude “Bye,” which sounds more like a Run the Jewels beat than anything to do with Murphy’s past or present. Sure, Missing Link comes with the disclaimer calling it “A bridge between what’s out and what’s coming,” but it’s a sizable leap from one side to the other.

By track three the EP reaches Murphy’s new frontier, the electronic, heavily-produced pop that “Fear Less” and “Stop Me (Stop You)” had outlined. It’s still a sound marked by mixed textures, fits of noise, thick atmosphere, and punchy drums, and those characteristics are well suited for the skybound structures and lyrics about tumultuous love. But for an artist like Murphy, whose renowned singing has only grown stronger and more distinctive over the years, it’s strange that the songs underutilize his voice. Even compared to the measured delivery on “Your Time,” there's a restraint that verges on flatness in the toplines of “I’m Ready” and “Forget About Me.” If his goal is to leave room for more showy instrumentation, Murphy’s focus on production doesn’t always work, either. The first 45 seconds of “Forget About Me” are especially egregious, where a high-pitched vocoder, a clanging bell, and operatic strings mush together to introduce the song’s U2-lite posturing. For the last two minutes, Murphy finally lets his voice run wild, and yet he buries it beneath electronic clutter and the arrangement's pedestrian histrionics.

Of Missing Link’s newer material, “Weak Education” is by far the most interesting, and it points a way forward for Murphy that doesn’t ditch his past entirely. Not unlike Built on Glass’ “Cigarettes & Loneliness,” the song competently borrows from artists and styles outside the R&B and soul spheres. Thom Yorke’s solo work informs the mild-mannered eclecticism; Fela Kuti’s Afrobeat bolsters the jittery, stripped-down groove; from the opening horns to the wailing keyboard solo at the end, Murphy’s enduring jazz obsessions emerge with gusto. During a recent interview with Zane Lowe, Murphy said, “I’m so confused by myself right now, in terms of the music I’m listening to. It just seems to be getting heavier and heavier, and weirder—just abstract as hell.” But by pairing those fresh inspirations with his familiar strengths, he”s began to make some sense of it all.