f these walls could talk they wouldn’t shut the fuck up.”


A shit childhood. Can you relate? When you see a child wandering alone in a mall because he’s afraid to go home, how do you feel? When you walk past a man and his daughter and smell the damp, foggy sweetness of liquor in the air, does it bring back memories? When you see a parent yank a child’s arm hard and straight down, do you feel it? For many, these are the building blocks of a life. If you can identify with any one of these scenarios, I welcome you, brother, for you probably also remember cold, frightening, sleepless nights that would accompany the screams and fists of your parents’ final days together, or the nausea brought on by the sounds of your mom getting fucked in the next room by “some guy”. If you were lucky, that guy stuck around and took care of you and your mother. If you weren’t, that guy became a new menace; a dominant, punching, fondling, stinking fixture in your life that made the past seem like a distant, sun-drenched dream.


And now you’re grown, and you’re beginning to understand the unimagined significance of your infancy, your childhood, your adolescence. Can you trust? Can you believe? Can you love? Can you even determine what “you” is? Are you a person -- a loved, wanted amalgam of your parents’ best attributes -- or are you a bundle of broken promises, abuse and sadness? Are you who you should be or are you merely a constant, cynical reaction to what you were shown and what you were subjected to?


In the end there are two results: succumbing and transcending. Those who succumb become, quite simply, white trash: empty, self-loathing, self-pitying husks who look for companionship in harsh, unloving sex and meaning in drugs and alcohol. I can think of nothing sadder than a fifteen year old whose brain is malfunctioning because he went looking for stability in a handful of acid. Dim-witted because education held no escape, unstylish because poverty stalks the abused, these people are the spat out remains of a horrid meal.


But this is not the only option. Those who can transcend their bleak beginnings are some of the strongest, most determined people you could ever hope to meet. Sure, they will regale you with stories of their depressing childhood -- perhaps to gain approval, perhaps to keep you at a distance -- but if anyone deserves to be listened to, it would be these survivors, these lost children who were ignored when they should have been held.


Sage Francis deserves to be held, and held close. Personal Journals is a dark, reflective laundry list of the horrors of childhood -- abandonment, abuse, suicide, divorce -- and their subsequent results -- loneliness, the inability to trust, the perpetuation of abuse to oneself and to others -- and it is by far the finest hip hop album of this year. It is weary and sad, but it is also lovingly assembled, intelligent and soulful. Instead of leaving you devastated, Personal Journals is strangely comforting. Sage Francis is our exorcist.


He has seen dark days. “Crack Pipes”, “Inherited Scars”, and “Runaways” are all occupied with images of broken toys, warring parents, abandonment and abuse. “Different”, “Broken Wings”, and “The Specialist” chronicle the difficulty our hero has when trying to connect with others. “Smoke and Mirrors”, “Pitchers of Silence”, “Climb Trees”, and “Cup of Tea” all contemplate escape, with the first two discussing self-destructive methods and the latter two looking for a more fulfilling haven. Sage Francis’ haven is music. Songs and poetry have provided him with outlets for his rage, confusion and loneliness, and Personal Journals , while clearly a purging of ghosts, is also a gesture of gratitude aimed at the entity that inspired him to rise above the pain of his youth. He owes a large debt to music, and he repays that debt in full.


Lyrically, Sage Francis is nothing short of brilliant. His flow is rough, but not raspy, and as rapid fire as one can get without sputtering gibberish. There is no posturing and no belligerence, just thoughtful, intense strings of metaphors that are as honest as they are imaginative. The tale of poverty and sour love he spins on “Eviction Notice” is twisted and disturbing. “Broken Wings” is crushing in its depiction of the guilt and the “what if’s” that spring to mind after discovering a loved one has been abused. “Runaways” is a plaintive, lovely summary of not only the thoughts of the album, but also its spirit: one of sadness, but not depression.


Exemplifying that feeling of sadness is the album’s production, provided by a number of Anticon’s resident geniuses. Eschewing the grating, disorienting fog found on many of the label’s releases, the producers of Personal Journals opt for breezy r’n’b, replete with horns and flutes. Wistful, dusty funk permeates much of the album, infusing it with an audible approximation of Sage Francis’ sad soul. But there are several moments of serious Anticon dynamics. “Crack Pipes” begins with a disconsolate, dissonant guitar line before making way for frantic, gross drums; “Pitchers of Silence” brims with crashing beats, tablas and drones; “Cup of Tea” is the psychedelic result of a busy kick drum and dreamy, melting synthesizers. It’s a delightfully mixed bag of soul vs. strange, whist vs. weird, but each backing track fits its accompanying lyrics perfectly.


But “perfect” is not a word to attach to Sage Francis or to Personal Journals . “My Name is Strange” is a less-than-terrific, less-than-heartfelt re-appropriation of Bob Seger’s “Turn the Page” and “Black Sweatshirt”, one of the album’s three instrumental interludes, is fairly non-descript. In addition, the continuously dark subject matter may overwhelm those not accustomed to such tales of woe. From my perspective, these are minor complaints. Two bad songs are easily forgotten when there are sixteen other great ones to choose from, and as far as the negative lyrics are concerned, one glaring fact must be kept in mind: we are listening to a man’s life. On Personal Journals Sage Francis is opening up for all to hear. His time for being neglected is over.