It seems that the fame got to her, in the way that sudden fame can seem suddenly alienating and confusing for many musicians. Emily’s D+Evolution feels like a direct response to that success, as Spalding runs in the opposite direction of much of what she was known for and chooses to grow by pushing jazz into unexpected, prog-rock like directions.

Good Lava and Judas both feel positively polyrhythmic, with unpredictable and jazzy guitar riffs guiding pummelling alt-rock tracks from beginning to end, and Spalding’s voice somehow uniting all of these wild elements together. The two tracks are great summaries of what you can expect from the rest of the album: although Spalding’s gone electric, her musicians are still playing jazz. Wild drums, virtuoso guitar parts, driving bass lines that completely ignore the main riff while tying the whole track together, time signatures that are difficult to predict and harder to understand, all these things are key components to the jazz experience.

This is an authentic jazz record, but it’s done with rock music. And while plenty of people have played jazz rock before, this feels like a rare time when it’s a jazz band becoming interested in rock music — not the other way around.

At the centre of it all is Emily, a character that Spalding recently told NPR came to her in a dream. And while she claims Emily, which is also Spalding’s middle name, isn’t some sort of Slim Shady-style Id being worked out through her Ego, it seems sort of obvious that’s the case in a lot of ways.

fHaving naturally taken chamber jazz as far as it could go, moving into alt-rock territory could be perceived as an evolution or de-evolution by Spalding’s audience. As a character, Emily is a way for Spalding to avoid taking the brunt of the weight that comes with criticism, a way for her to use an alter ego to explore something new without allowing it to hurt the goodwill she’s built up as a jazz performer — much the same way that Slim Shady allowed Eminem to become completely, publicly outrageous without ever necessarily being perceived as a total lunatic or real menace to society (at least, not by his fans).

All that being said, Emily feels more attuned to social justice and hippy love than Esperanza is. It’s not that Emily allows her to explore lyrical insanities, so much as Emily allows her to experiment with the form without sacrificing her jazz roots. She’s taking the form electric the same way that Dylan took folk rock electric — and it’s incredible.

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Plaza feels like Quilt has figured out their answers to these questions, and they’re moving on from their neo-psychedelic roots and becoming more lively and more aggressive. Searching For has a Beatles-like charm that feels lifted straight out of the Revolver era, and its meaning — that Quilt feels like they’re wandering from one stage to another — is embedded in the song’s title.

That’s not to say that Quilt has abandoned the quieter songs that made them famous in the alt-folk scene. Eliot St. wanders down familiar paths, but it feels like the band has a stronger sense of direction than before. (Rather than getting lost on the street, now they walk straight through, merely bemused by where they are, and find the next intersection.)

If you’re unfamiliar with Quilt’s style, the two primary songwriters — Anna Rochinski and Shane Butler — swap leading roles as singers often. I’m particularly fond of Rochinski’s tracks, where songs like O’Connor’s Barn aren’t afraid to experiment a bit while clearly driving forward to an unmistakeable confusion.

Plaza is the most successful Quilt record yet because it’s the first time this formula has really worked for them: Rochinski often feels as if she has one foot in the past and a few toes in the future, while Butler is almost the opposite. It’s a remarkable display of the tension during the band’s transition period.

When the two singers agree on a direction, on tracks like Hissing My Plea, the energy is palpable. These are the standout tracks on the record. As their voices harmonize before singing different parts, and they swap leads from one verse to the next, the band sounds more comfortable with their new identities than ever before. By the time the woodwinds and strings take over, we’re convinced: Quilt is going to emerge from this period a stronger, more focused band than ever before.

In the meantime, though, we’re left with an important record that documents the changing of the times within the band. Even the cover art feels like it’s stuck in their alt-folk past, as if the band hasn’t reconciled their newfound musical aesthetic with their visual elements. If ever Plaza feels unsuccessful, it’s during the songs where the band feels unsure of themselves. It’s the growing pains. Despite them, Plaza feels like a raw and honest look at what it means to grow in a band, and it’s hard not to love it.

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Monster is the obvious stand-out track early on in the album: a big, sing-along chorus that would fit in well at a night club is balanced out by a quieter verse that plays well and gives the duo a sense of dynamics that many of their contemporaries lack.

The production really shines here. Lyrically, this band isn’t singing anything you haven’t heard before. The vocals aren’t meant to be any more than soft texture though. As they dance between falsettos and sexually tinged, softly sung verses, the duo makes it clear that they’re not interested in so much what they have to say but how they say it.

Treating the vocals as an instrument frees them up to explore with almost industrial-like rhythms on tracks like Slow, or the R&B-laden Gone, where the vocal work lacks mystery but aids in providing context to the brashness and power of the instrumentation.

The totality in production makes Colours feel like an impenetrable wall, a giant slab of R&B-tinged industrial pop that feels like an attack on your senses. The duo wants to be noticed and demands to be heard, but they make it inescapably clear they’re not interested in being known for their vocals. They want you to listen to the whole package.

By the time you’re done listening to Ivory, though, you’re wondering what’s next for the band. The success of Colours’ debut hinges on how they grow for its follow up, and what they have to say next. It’s a launching point for what is (hopefully) a successful career.

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Malibu is smooth R&B all the way down, but it also defies categorization thanks to its hip hop guests and jazz affectations. The Waters is a fantastic example of this leaning: Paak doesn’t sing his way through, but instead raps through verses and has BJ the Chicago Kid guest. Unlike most rappers, Paak’s voice constantly feels like he’s singing, but this is most certainly rap — even if it’s accompanied by a backing choir singing the verse with him.

Songs like Put Me Thru feel like more traditional R&B, as does album opener The Bird, which is nearly Isaac Hayes-like. But immediately following it is a track featuring Schoolboy Q, which features Paak crooning and bringing the soul and Schoolboy Q bringing chorus-laden rap verses. (While we’re on the topic of Am I Wrong, I wouldn’t say every experiment on Malibu is wildly successful.)

In that sense, I can understand the comparison that Pitchfork makes with Malibu and Kendrick’s work, but in reality, Paak feels much more like BJ the Chicago Kid in his willingness to try new things and experiment. (Malibu and Butterfly do make very complementary records, though.)

Some tracks on Malibu are more successful than others, and reveal what Dre may have been mentoring Paak on with production and songwriting. Without You is wonderful, and Rhapsody’s vocal work pairs well with the laid-back R&B on hand here.

This constant blending and mixture that Paak is so expertly talented at makes Malibu feel like a multifaceted and multi-layered mystery. Anderson Paak is avoiding categorization, and aware enough of roots that he can embrace the familiar while combining a multitude of influences and experiences into something that feels like the future of multiple genres.

With the release of Malibu, it’s clear that Dre doesn’t necessarily feel he’s found a great emcee. It’s more like he’s found an equally talented songwriter and producer who can carry on his work when he retires. Paak is more than willing to carry that torch, and if Malibu is a chance for him to celebrate that accomplishment, it’s also a statement that he’s here to stay — and we ought to be grateful for that.

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