As the year draws to a close, an army of American babes is on the march — Britney, Beyoncé, Mariah, Christina, Pink — all stamping their mark on pop charts and concert halls across the world. But 22-year-old Alicia Keys has trumped the lot of them. Her second album takes all that vocal prowess and glamorous, womanly bravado, then adds a little something extra. It’s called class, and Keys has more of it than the rest of her navelbaring contemporaries put together.

A classically trained pianist steeped in the sounds and beats of the street, Keys moves between different worlds with an unforced grace. Bach and Chopin are as much a part of her musical make-up as Roberta Flack and the Wu-Tang Clan. The album opens with the swirling classical piano arabesque of Harlem’s Nocturne, and ends with a tough-as-nails hip-hop groove, Streets of New York; a guided tour through her home town in the company of the rappers Nas and Rakim. The songs in between range from the wronged woman battle cry of Karma, in which staccato strings jostle with beats, to conventional soul/pop ballads echoing the classic songwriting craft of Carole King.

Whether bigging it up with some funky Timbaland beats on Heartburn or embarking on a shy but oh-so-seductive telephone conversation in You Don't Know My Name, Keys maintains absolute musical integrity. Nothing is forced, shrill, shallow or stuck in for effect. As with a real diary, what you get is what she feels.



David Sinclair

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