Santigold explores art's value in "99¢"

The first song on Santigold's album

99¢

(Atlantic ***1/2), out last week, sounds like it could have been written for Kanye West or Donald Trump.

"Oooh, all I want to do is what I do well," the avant-pop songwriter born Santi White, who was raised in the Mount Airy section of Northwest Philadelphia, sings on the perky, ego-tastic "I Can't Get Enough of Myself."

"Ain't a gambler, honey, but I'd put money on myself."

But White isn't idly boasting. With her third album - following her 2008 self-titled debut and 2012's Master of My Make-Believe - she offers a sly critique of marketing-mad, selfie-centered consumer culture.

The typically genre-spanning, catchier-than-ever collection finds her reunited with producers such as Dave Sitek of TV on the Radio, as well as new collaborators such as ex-Vampire Weekend keyboard player Rostam Batmanglij, Swedish hitmaker Patrik Berger, and rapper ILoveMakonnen. It works reggae and African rhythms, 1980s synths, and rock power chords into perfectly enjoyable pop songs with a subversive undercurrent.

White is the daughter of Ron White, the late Philadelphia political power broker and associate of former Mayor John F. Street. She graduated from Wesleyan University and worked in New York as a record executive and songwriter before coming home to Philly in the mid-'00s. Here, she fronted the excellent ska-punk band Stiffed before going electropop with her solo debut, whose "Creator" and "L.E.S. Artistes" became signifiers of cool in innumerable TV shows and commercials.

The singer, 39, talked on the phone from her home in Brooklyn, where she lives with her snowboarder-musician husband, Trevor Andrew, and their young son. She kicks off a tour next month in Texas that will arrive at the Theatre of Living Arts on May 1.

How old is your son?

He's 22 months. His name is Radek.

Motherhood must be a life-changing experience.

Oh, definitely. In wonderful ways. It's been really interesting trying to do record rollout with a less-than-2-year-old.

How about making the record? What was that like?

It was nice, actually. I had, like, amazing babysitter help. It started out really mellow when he was about two months. Really easy hours, like recreational fun. I was coming home by nap time to this ball of joy.

I just really needed to have a fun time making a record, because it can get pretty grueling, and I didn't want to deal with that energy.

Was "Master of My Make-Believe" difficult to make?

It was really hard, really challenging. I think because it was my second record, and you're in shock about how different the process is from the first record. And by the third record you're like, "OK, this is how I work: What am I going to do different this time?"

Did you feel pressure with the second record because the first was so successful?

Yeah, I guess so.

Wasn't it? Did it seem like a big success to you, or not?

It was well-received and it put me on the map in a secure way. Which is all you can ask for. And people really liked it. But everything changed so much between the first and second record, it's so hard to gauge success with records anymore. I mean, really, "Disparate Youth" [from Master of My Make-Believe] is my most successful song to date.

That's surprising. I would have said "Creator" or "L.E.S. Artistes."

"Creator" marked my territory. . . . This is who I am, and I'm here. It was super-important because it's like an anchor. And you need that today, because everything is so disposable and so quick-moving, and if you're going to be around, you need something that dug into people's souls and made its mark in people's memories and hearts.

So it was probably my most important record. Since then, people don't really buy records and music anymore. [She laughs] So it's hard to gauge success in conventional terms really. By the second album, I wasn't selling any records, but I was playing every major festival in America and drawing really large crowds.

Why did you call the new album "99¢"?

Several reasons. First of all, 99 cents is sort of a joke price for something I worked so hard on and put so much of myself into. So, it's highlighting how little value is placed on such an important fine art at this time. I mean, music isn't even worth 99 cents in most cases.

That would be a good price, if you could get that much.

Right. I have spent almost as much time in the marketing of this record as in the making of it. The amount of content you have to make just to get attention now in this landscape of ADD, disposable content. . . . You're basically just a marketing machine instead of an artist. It's insane.

How do you keep that from spoiling the artistic process?

So that's another reason I decided to name my album 99¢. I just started writing the songs. I didn't have a concept. And then I looked and it seemed like I'm talking about what it feels like to be an artist in this time of commercialism and narcissism.

What were those first few songs? "Can't Get Enough of Myself"?

No, but I had that title. "Chasing Shadows," "Run the Races." I realized that was what I was talking about. So I decided to have fun with that. "Run the Races" was one of the first songs I wrote. It's about the decision to join in. You can stand on the sidelines and talk about how everything's wrong. Or you can jump in and do your version of it, and sneak your message in there. You have to play the game.

One of the things I've always looked up to in people like David Byrne is he always, with no judgment, looks at the now, and sees what's exciting and new about it. And I'm really trying to do that, as well.

You have to engage?

Exactly. So that's what I did. I made a playful, fun, sometimes satirical record that turns this entire experience into part of the art. I climbed into a bag and I shrink-wrapped myself. I feel like we're at such an absurd reality right now where literally people cannot tell the difference between virtual and real, even within their own self identities.

Experience isn't real until you've created some sort of record of it . . .

. . . And at the cost of the experience, because you're not even paying attention! And so I decided to turn that into art. Even the number of branding partnerships I had to go into to put the music out. I decided to make it as blatant as possible: This is the art at this point. The art is the product that goes with the art, and the relationship between them. That's what I'm showing and that's what I'm playing with.

How much time do you spend in Philly these days?

Not that much. My sister is up here. We've got these babies. I moved back to Philly when I needed, like, to sneak away and cultivate some ideas. It's a great place for that.

That was for Stiffed?

I moved there as an artist to figure out what I was doing for myself. I figured out how to sing and perform my first year there.

Then, when I was ready, I left. Because there was nowhere really to go in Philly. And Philly is a pretty conservative city, and I wasn't doing things that were really easy to understand or digest. And I felt like I needed to go to get it heard.

ddeluca@phillynews.com

215-854-5628 @delucadan www.philly.com/inthemix