(Like the man himself, I sidestep vulgarities.) But he’s also aware his absences make admirers’ hearts fonder, their shrieks hoarser, and their underthings, er, silkier. He needs to accumulate life experience to provide his music with substance. In interviews, the anxious-yet-affable sex symbol explains that he prefers to minimize the celebrity side of his existence. After dispatching three albums and an MTV Unplugged session between the late Clinton and early Bush eras, the 21 st-century Maxwell has taken to nesting and nomading indefinitely while incubating what must by now be nearly the slowest-motion “trilogy” in pop history. Up until last weekend, we had waited seven years for a new record, perpetually touted as imminent. And the signs are that Maxwell agrees with me, unfortunately for the R&B loverman’s most ravenous fans. That guideline may apply to most music, but especially to Maxwell’s, which ranges in tempo from slow jam to medium jam, and in mood from cosmically aroused to philosophically bummed. His music is ambrosia, but best served in petite saucers, lest any go to waste. To massage a cliché, when it comes to Maxwell, a little goes all the way.
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