After his first attempt at a solo adventure with “CMFT” (20), Corey Taylor is back with the second installment of his particular masculine singular project, reaffirming with it both the stylistic versatility that experience grants him and the limited inventive capacity that the artist himself possesses. And depending on what type of ears the different tracks of this are going to fall on “CMFT 2” These shortages do not necessarily have to be negative or pejorative aspects. In fact, this solo sequel by the Slipknot and Stone Sour vocalist is a direct ticket to a time tunnel that aims to revisit the different virtues and flaws of the artist throughout his extensive career (with a disturbing cover, which borders on ugliness and nostalgia, as proof of this), assuming that what the listener will find behind closed doors is completely free of surprises or unexpected turns.
The challenge is, therefore, trying to fit together correctly and with minimal coherence the various scales and registers that Taylor accumulates in his closet – from his rage as a masked metalhead to the melodic and meditative lines of a tormented southern rocker. The leaps between genres seem abysmal (and sometimes even insurmountable), as this passage without anesthesia between the deranged “Talk Sick” y “Breath Of Fresh Smoke”, which seems to be taken from a cheesy compilation of songs for truck drivers. However, Taylor’s voice (aware of its limitations, but brave in its purposes) acts as the lowest common denominator in the equation, thanks to that torn and vulnerable warmth that fills with feeling and closeness both its most contemplative and ocher passages and those which are carried out by their exacerbated and angry metal-core side. With the certainty of thus being satisfying the demands and demands of the different lines of followers that have populated her concerts since she has been aware of it, “CMFT 2” It works as a bridge between the immediate and the felt, between the light and the mammoth, and between sweetness and rapture, leaving intense and distorted diatribes about mental health along the way (“Kept me from admitting all the venom I was spitting”sing in “Midnight”), heavy percussion accompanied by drowned and semi-dry gutturals that at times will take us back to “Iowa” (01) (“Post Traumatic Blues”), euphoric ballads to launch our best headbangers and cornutan hands in the air (“Beyond”), or punk-rock anthems directly designed to be sung in stadiums and that try to maintain that tense balance between the different styles that Taylor seeks to play (“We Are The Rest”).
When he decides to take maturity, the bet wins (“Someday I’ll Change Your Mind”) and excessive emotion, even giving us the opportunity to see its most personal and human face, unfortunately falls into a drowsiness of little redemption (“Sorry Me”). However, the glimpses of his energy and the most daring cards that break the deck of his sudden and artificial sophistication (“All I Want Is Hate” or the infinite strings of stitches that we will find in several of his cuts) manage to save the furniture, reminding us of that famous saying “shoemaker to your shoes.” Taylor is a restless soul with a lot to offer, but it would be a greater filter in her selections that would save her from ending up making trompe-l’oeil that is confusing for the listener and albums on her own that turn out to be unnecessarily miscellaneous.