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In that candlelight and you vein of soulful lover men, Heston Francis rarely misses.
Sounding like a cousin of Kem and Marvin Gaye with a dash of Uncle Beres Hammond thrown in just to remind listeners of his Dominican background, the ATL singer-songwriter delivers a satiny set sure to make the ladies swoon and their fellas have to work hard to resist throwing him a murderous side-eye, especially when the bended knee gent promises to give his woman “his last name” on take it all cuts like “Resign To U” and declares “that a man has found himself a good thing when he finds himself a wife” on “Destiny.” The commitment adverse will all but send a lynch mob for him over the business-like “you’re a part of my team” chorus of “Coming Home.” Smoothly executed, it’s not much of an artistic evolution for Heston, and longer time fans of the stunning, more panoramic debut, Storyteller, may ask if Heston’s just becoming an exceptionally competent one-note bedroom artist, one whose shtick of hat in hand is a bit too well-performed.
With a back pocket full of compliments, a guitar slung to his broad back, a bouquet of flowers in one hand and a picnic basket in the other, Heston is every Harlequin Romance reader’s dream. Affirming songs like “My Best Friend” and the cheerleading “To The Sky” already tells you he’ll be the strong handed one to rub your shoulders after a long day at work and listen to you kvetch about that chick that rhymes with witch at work. “Dreamin’”says he’ll expect some equally Stepford Wife reciprocity, of course, and some help with that tie he still hasn’t mastered by his 30s. Still, this is a sensitive soul who is sure to draw your bathwater and throw roses across the bed sheets for a just barely known love interest in “Love Space (featuring Chantae Cann).” How could you resist? Looking down from your balcony, one is guaranteed that he’ll be standing in a rose garden rocking an International Male pirate blouse and a Gibson guitar serenading about how addicted he is to you on “Love Junkie.” These scenarios aren’t actual lyrics, well at least not all of them, though he isn’t resistant to penning clichés like “fitting like hand to glove” on ballads like an oddly and frequently off-key “Catfish.” This is just more or less the sentiment of Love Junkie as a whole, and while it’s sold as voice crackling transparency and resonance-rich vulnerability, something about its minimalist smooth jazz and urban adult contemporary productions reads too calculated and, well, boring. Besides, at the end of this romance novel, you’re more likely to experience a third act reveal that the handsome stranger was gaslighting you at night and poisoning your food for the insurance money. It’s all just a bit too slick and put on, even for those dying to swoon.
It’s strange to call out a project from Heston as feeling inauthentic and for being a creative snooze. For all I know, he might truly mean every word and this is one rather long love letter to his lady. But, the Heston we met in 2008 on Storyteller actually did tell stories like “Good Morning America,” and more than one kind. And while the uneven, but good Warm Human, Cold World did harken this new, admittedly disheartening direction toward see my heart’s on my sleeve lothario, it at least delivered more variance and rhythms in its sonic palette. There is a prevailing sameness in sound and “see how devoted I am?” subject matter, one only occasionally broken, as on the reggae gospel of “Our Father.” None of it is bad; all of it, sans “Catfish,” is well sung, and there is undoubtedly an audience for its silky, sultry smoothly shaven chest notes. With Rogaine and a pitcher of water in hands all too ready to corrupt all that bare-naked flesh, I guess I’m just no longer part of it. Moderately recommended.
By L. Michael Gipson