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Recent Articles By Eric K. Arnold

National Features

  • Phoenix New Times
    Canine Crusaders

    That drug-sniffing dog up ahead? He may not be your best friend.

    By Ray Stern
  • Broward-Palm Beach New Times
    The Muscle Men

    Thanks to a string of Florida "anti-aging clinics," baseball's steroid scandal isn't limited to superstars.

    By Michael J. Mooney
  • Miami New Times
    Picked On

    Farm workers earn nada in America's green-bean capital.

    By Janine Zeitlin
  • Village Voice
    "Why I'm No Longer a Brain-Dead Liberal"

    An election-season essay from one of America's greatest playwrights.

    By David Mamet

Blessed with exotic good looks and a razor-sharp tongue, former water-polo star Sean Henriques reinvented himself as Sean Paul and became dancehall's urban-crossover poster child — his second album, 2003's Dutty Rock, knocked 50 Cent from the No. 1 Billboard slot. Such success may have gone to his head. The Trinity isn't a religious reference but rather a self-referential nod to his trio of full-lengths, and Sean Paul boasts incessantly throughout it. The production is slicker than seals in oil, and Paul's melodic flow remains as nimble as ever, but Trinity suffers from monotony, adhering to the same formula we've heard a million times: his numerous hotties, his lover-man superiority, his dominance over dancehall's competition. Several midtempo ballads make this chest-beating even more tedious; the only respite comes when guest artists Wayne Marshall and Nina Sky inject contrast and flavor. The Trinity's final quarter stacks Paul's strongest songs together, but yardies would probably be better off leaving their one-time champion to his newfound fans and waiting on singles better tailored to his hardcore audience.

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