Here, the focus is squarely on her voice, a bit raspier than last time we met her but still gorgeous. On Rhythm Nation 1814 and The Velvet Rope, she gave up much of her mic time to samples and instrumental segments, often scrambling to stay on top of the beats. When she speaks, she’s mostly commenting from “behind the scenes,” rapturously thanking her fans or ribbing her sound engineer. Her trademark spoken interludes, which dominated the track lists of her CD-era albums, are absent. Unbreakable is one of Jackson’s most focused and least indulgent albums. The incongruous Missy Elliott collab “BURNITUP!” and the West Coast hip hop experiments “Dammn Baby” and “2 B Loved” are the worst things here, though they’re conspicuously placed and don’t disrupt the album’s flow too much. There are only a few efforts at capturing a modern audience enthralled by Jackson’s pop progeny. The line, “ I’ma be the queen of insomnia,” on “No Sleeep,” might be cringe worthy if that epithet didn’t exactly describe her cool and confidence.
She moves effortlessly, her voice a monolithic presence at the center of the soundscape. The most incredible thing about Unbreakable is how little Jackson sounds like she has to prove. Even the song about her brother Michael’s death is called “Broken Hearts Heal” and features the promise “ Insha’Allah see you in the next life.” (“Insha’Allah” means “God willing” Jackson reportedly converted to Islam after her marriage.) Jackson is at ease on this album, and most of the lyrics pertain to her contentment with new husband Wissam Al Mana. Having a legion of people who love you, even if it’s just for your art, must be reassuring. But considering just how much shit she’s had to deal with, from an abusive childhood to self-hatred to post-Super Bowl blacklisting, it’s well-earned. This might seem like the recipe for something trite.
The album feels like a sigh of relief, an expression of overwhelming gratitude not only to her longtime fans, but anyone who’s still listening. But it is a gift for the fans: 64 minutes of compulsively listenable new music with no conceptual baggage. Unbreakable is neither a sonic game-changer like Control nor an exorcism like The Velvet Rope. And in a time when pop is taken more seriously than ever–thanks in part to Beyonce’s self-titled, which took a few cues from Jackson’s The Velvet Rope–what better time for her to return? Not since 2001’s All For You has popular culture beheld Jackson as a serious pop artist free of silly context. Indeed, it’s been seven years since Discipline, the last in a series of albums overshadowed by the 2004 Super Bowl “wardrobe malfunction” that tainted her career. “ It’s been a while,” Janet Jackson whispers at the beginning of her 11th album, Unbreakable.
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