All That I Am

Carlos Santana is not afraid to share the spotlight. On his 38th album, the Latino virtuoso adopts a revolving door policy, roping in collaborators as though in mortal terror of being left alone. What results sounds like a sprawling salsa jam, frantic yet fatally devoid of a unifying mood or style.
Following the record’s release in the United States, Santana admitted that All That I Am's army of guest vocalists was selected by his producer, Clive Davis, who has an eye for a headline-grabbing collaboration but little empathy for Carlos’ particular talents. As a result, the album feels like a succession of fantastic ideas limply refusing to live up to their promise.
Orthodoxy yields the project’s best moments. On ‘Cry Baby Cry’ Joss Stone and Sean Paul gamely warble and mug while Santana evokes salsa rhythms – your married sister who works at the bank will love it – while ‘My Man’, featuring Mary J Blige and Big Boi, proffers a decent fusion of r&b and latino.
Too often however, All That I Am teeters on the brink. For inviting Metallica’s Kirk Hammett to the cocktail lounge (‘Trinity’), Davis deserves 12 months in solitary with only Michael Bublé’s greatest hits for company.
Especially wretched is the contribution of Bo Brice, an American Idol finalist who labours under the dangerous misapprehension that the world requires more Mariah Careys. Confused and uncomfortable in its skin, All That I Am is everything a Santana album shouldn’t be.