(out of five) 
Somebody please set this woman free.
Get her away from "Puffy" Combs and his posse of rap
poseurs, away from the great soporific clouds of instrumental
gloss that follow her everywhere, away from the pervasive
commercial atmosphere in which art takes a back seat to
selling records. "No. 1 this, No. 1 that, 80 million sold, yada
yada yada ..." Mariah Carey's press release makes it perfectly clear: Money first, music second.
Until this changes, Carey's going to come across like a five-octave songbird in a guilded cage.
She can sing, has shown some facility for lyric writing (maudlin as it may be) and is obviously not
stupid, but her work has been all style and very little substance.
Butterfly is no different. This album is about as subtle as a being buried alive by cotton candy.
For the most part, layer upon layer of overproduction ruins what worthy grains of ideas there
are. No time is wasted. Leading off this R&B-saturated collection is the dreadful, already No. 1
single, Honey - a sticky sweet mess of sentimentality produced by Fluffy ...sorry, Puffy Combs.
Only a few tracks have been spared the bombast. Close My Eyes and the closing ballad,
Outside, are simple enough to reveal a glimpse of honesty. The rest is too overwrought,
over-dramatic and over-the-top to be believed. Over and out.
Saturday, September 13, 1997;
By MIKE ROSS;
Edmonton Sun
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