Rihanna isn’t so much profane in language — though certainly sometimes that — as in presence. Of all the pop megastars of the 2000s, she is without peer when it comes to her image, which is steely and unforgiving and bulletproof, a pleasure-guided man-killer with concrete for skin.
That doesn’t mean she’s never hurt on “Unapologetic” (Def Jam), which is one of her best albums, along with her 2007 breakthrough, “Good Girl Gone Bad,” and her 2010 pop peak, “Loud.” But even on the most vulnerable songs, she maintains her cool, never once verging on the maudlin.
The character on this album is the product of several years’ refining, a process that began with her 2006 single “Unfaithful,” an aching song befitting a singer with far more shading to her voice.
Rihanna never did become a powerful singer, but by the time of “Good Girl Gone Bad,” her third album, she had begun to understand the limitations of the contours of her voice, and its advantages. She would never be the best vocalist on the pop charts, but she could be the most attitudinal, the most salacious, the most bitter. She could invent a persona as big as the songs.
And so, over the years, as her game face froze in place, her voice cured into a weapon of emotional chill and strategic indifference. It’s decidedly unfriendly, made to give orders. It matters way more than anything she might say.
Take “Numb,” a sinuous collaboration with Eminem that appears early on the new album. Rihanna has maybe three dozen words between the first two verses, but her meaning is clear from the delivery, which is forceful and slurry, alternating between stretched and staccato vowels.
Ecstasyyyyyyyy
In the air
I don’t care
Can’t tell me nothinnnnnnng
I’m impaired
Her voice does wonders for the insipid lyrics on the pomp-thick single “Diamonds,” which sounds far more like a James Bond theme song than Adele’s too patient “Skyfall.”
Rihanna is also laser-focused on “Jump,” which borrows from the Ginuwine hit “Pony” in such a brassy way that it’s difficult to fault her for it, and which, in Rihanna’s inflections, nods ever so slightly to Justin Timberlake’s “Cry Me a River.” Often Rihanna sounds bored by a lyric before she even finishes it, and just as bored by the person it’s about.
“Think I give a damn,” she sings. “Boy, don’t you know who I am/I ain’t run around chasing no dude.”
The music is just as brutish and bruised; occasionally Rihanna shows up essentially unaccompanied, but most of her songs are built tough and layered. David Guetta contributed production to “Phresh Out the Runway” and “Right Now,” two songs with appealingly guttural edges. “Pour It Up” sounds like a track the ambient-goth outfit Salem might make for a strip club.
The songs that are the least texturally confrontational are also by far the least successful: “Stay,” a dull, piano-driven duet with Mikky Ekko; the bland film-score-esque “Get It Over With” (apart from when she’s cursing); “Lost in Paradise,” which buzzes and hums but does not take flight.
In a few places on this album, Rihanna is clearly emotionally invested, as on “Loveeeeeee Song,” a striking, affecting duet with Future, the Atlanta rapper-turned-singer with the digitally shattered voice. By comparison, Rihanna sounds almost church-trained, and she’s singing with a lighter touch than usual, allowing flecks of hope into her dark room:
Boy, lately, you’ve been stingy with your time
Got me wondering, I’m wondering if I’m on your mind
Boy, I just wanna be in your possession
You say I’m the one you want so come express it
The softness that comes through here is a rarity but not a revelation. She’s still singing about love as an adversarial game, and she’s still steering.
With that in mind, there remains the matter of Chris Brown, her former boyfriend and onetime abuser, who in recent months has returned to Rihanna’s orbit in the form of public flirtations and musical collaborations. (If you haven’t read the police report detailing the 2009 incident that sent Rihanna to the hospital at Mr. Brown’s hands, you should: it’s harrowing.)
The most tender, affectionate, spirited song on “Unapologetic” is called “Nobody’s Business,” and it’s the one that features Mr. Brown. Like the Michael Jackson song it borrows from (“The Way You Make Me Feel”), it’s gelatinous and smooth, and also carefree. On an album full of dyspeptic relationships, it is the breath of cool, nourishing air.
This collaboration is, as it’s called online, pure trolling: a straight-faced provocation that’s really a big wink. If you want a sideshow, Rihanna will gladly give you a more lurid one than what you’ve been cringing in anticipation of. To make public art with the person who physically abused you is immature, pre-feminist, post-ethics. To make it cheerful and humane is just vexing.
It doesn’t help at all that her songs with Mr. Brown — the new one, and the remix of “Birthday Cake,” from her 2011 album, “Talk That Talk” — are some of her best.
Maybe her true art isn’t singing, or appearing impenetrable, but rather playing with public expectations. She’s a brat with the tools of a pop star at her disposal to make her mischief. Keeping people guessing, or grumbling, is just another way of holding them at bay.
That’s what makes it so much more notable when she lets loose, drops her guard and just sings unvarnished. “What Now” begins with plain piano but gets to bombast by the first chorus. Still, Rihanna is doing some of her most direct, ambitious singing here. It’s the album’s one real purge, and a sign of a pulse beneath the armor:
There’s no one to call cause I’m just playing games with them all
The more I swear I’m happy, the more that I’m feeling alone
Cause I spend every hour just going through the motions
I can’t even get the emotions to come out
Dry as a bone but I just wanna shout