FEATURE:
Spotlight
Amaarae
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FOR today…
I want to spend a moment proffering the incredible music of Amaarae. A Ghanaian-American singer, songwriter, producer, and engineer known for her work around representation of gender and race in music, Amaarae is a hugely inspiring artist. Last year, she put out the amazing album, THE ANGEL YOU DON’T KNOW. I will come to that. There are some interviews that I want to bring together. It is fascinating learning about Amaare’s heritage, culture and where she is heading. One of the most electric talents we have right now, for sure, I am hopeful that she will put out many more albums! The Line of Best Fit featured and spotlighted the amazing Amaarae last year:
“Everything in Ghana is DIY whether you like it or not, because the systems here don’t always work.” A lack of resources ironically made music-making seem more accessible to her: “When I went to school in the US, the students weren’t as adventurous as they were when I came back to Ghana. But here, they were always curious and saying ‘Oh, what can we experiment with, what can we try next, do next?’” They parlayed broken keyboards and classroom computers into equipment. “When I saw that there are resources that we can use to help us get our creative ideas out - I was blown away and I was like ‘Absolutely, I have to try this.’”
She started rapping aged 15 and would invite friends over for makeshift studio sessions. “I had this software called Mixcraft, and what I would do – at the time I didn’t know it – but I would write my verse and everybody else’s, and I would write the hook, and then they would record it.” By 17, she was interning at a recording studio, before university, where she DJed and took vocal lessons on the side.
Amaarae’s go-getting attitude doesn’t just stem from her peers: “My mom is an interesting parent,” she laughs. “I think the best thing that my mom did for me was helping me to understand that I’m creative and that’s great, but how do you take this talent and monetise it?”
One way was to appoint her as her ‘momager’. “It’s one hell of a crazy ride”, according to Amaarae. “Personally, if I wasn’t an artist, I would never manage one, cause oh my god, we are difficult to deal with.” Generational differences are the primary source of disputes between the two. “I could Tweet the wildest shit in the world, and to me and you, it’s not a big deal because people Tweet crazy shit all the time. But my mom will see it and be floored. She’s like, ‘how can you take this thought that’s in your mind and put it on the internet for everyone to see?’”
At the relationship’s heart, however, is mutual respect, and her mum’s business advice has paid off. “I never make a product, or a song, and wonder why isn’t anyone listening to it? When I make a record, I know exactly what I need to do to get it to people’s ears.”
She’s not avaricious, but Amaarae’s candid on the link between making money and producing her best work: “You have to look at your art as a commodity, and you have to understand how the world of commerce works. Otherwise, it can leave a bitter taste in your mouth, and leave you quite disillusioned.”
There’s much duality when it comes to Amaarae though, and her serious approach to her craft is offset by breeze and buoyancy. As 2020 presents its endless stream of challenges she’s “watching hella cartoons”. When she’s not making music, she’s happiest in bed: “Give me a good 8 hours sleep – Woah.” And the best way to listen to her new project is to “drop some LSD, drop some acid, and just trip out”.
There’s duality too in her gender expression. Amaarae's most recent video for flirtatious single "Fancy" sees her in an embelished leather dress and matching balaklava, in contrast to the sharp paisley suit she wears in "Like It". Since childhood, she says she has been unconcerned with binary norms: “I would wear like baggy shorts, but then have my hair braided really cute, with like pink baubles in them. That’s always just been me.”
A passion for bringing West African music to new fans around the world drives Amaarae: “It’s the most important thing in the world to me.” The global appetite in recent years for Afrobeats has seen acts like Burna Boy and Wizkid front and centre of an international stage, with both Universal Group and Sony opening Lagos headquarters. Alongside these major signing lies Nigeria’s flourishing Alté (alternative) movement, led by artists and Amaarae collaborators like Odunsi (The Engine) and Zamir.
Working closely with the scene’s key players means Amaarae is generally seen as part of the movement. For her, this is in error: “Ultimately Alté is a very specific sound and has a very specific bounce and movement. I wouldn’t call myself an Alté artist. My sound is really Afrofusion.” However, the hive of activity within the region provides a ripe creative environment. “Once we come together and take African music to the forefront, we can fuse our sound with like, Hispanic, hip-hop, with country artists, whatever. Just being able to cross those thresholds, I think, is the next frontier.”
Her upcoming 12-track project The Angel You Don’t Know is the latest tool in her arsenal. It symbolises a fresh chapter, following her 2017 debut EP Passionfruit Summers. “I just decided to say, ‘fuck it’”.
I am a new convert to Amaarae, so I was not aware of the hype and buzz that was around last year. It seems that this promise has been fulfilled! I think there is a marriage of music/sounds from Ghana and something a little more ‘conventional’. She is an artist you cannot really attach a genre to. The music is unique and free from simple definition. I want to quote a similar interview to that one from The Line of Best Fit. Pitchfork were also eager to know more about a wonderfully compelling and impressive artist and person:
“Pitchfork: Throughout your life, you’ve darted across the United States and between the U.S. and Ghana. Why did you move so much?
Amaarae: My mom always wanted to push herself to take new risks. We moved [to Atlanta] when I was 8 because my mom went to get her MBA. She got a job shortly after that, working in New York City, so we moved to New Jersey so she could be closer. I think my mom is a very forward-thinking person. After two or three years in Jersey, she was like, “Look, I can either stay here and work my way up in my job, or I can take all the experience, all the opportunities and the networks that I’ve built, go back to Ghana, and build something completely new for myself.”
What was it like to go back to Ghana after spending several formative years in America?
It was such an enriching experience. I was ignorant at the time because I thought, Oh, I’ve grown up in America. I’m going back and I know so much; I’m taking all these experiences with me. Can [Ghanaian kids] relate? I came back and the kids were better traveled than I was, had more of an understanding of how the world works than I did, were less sheltered, and much more adventurous.
It seems like your mom’s fearlessness has taken you around the world. How do you think that’s influenced you as an artist?
I think I have the same sort of fearlessness when it comes to my art, especially given the fact that I’m doing it from Ghana. A lot of people keep saying to me, “Why are you here doing the kind of music that you make?” It’s still considerably alternative in comparison to traditional, homegrown Afrobeats. I still continue to get shut out in my own country by radio, television, and overall media. International platforms are way more willing to give me a shot. In spite of that, I continue to persevere and do my art in the way that I want to do it.
What Missy Elliott and Kelis did for me is the reason I can be so expressive now. I know that there are young girls, in this country especially, that need to know that outside of the kind of girls that you’re seeing on TV, there’s somebody out here that’s doing some different shit. And you could get into some different shit, too. It doesn’t even necessarily have to be music. Like you might want to code. You might want to be an aeronautical engineer. Whatever! They just have to know that you don’t have to be boxed in. I have to be fearless in my messaging and in my journey because [Ghana] is oppressive as shit towards women—especially women who might not have access to the opportunities that I have.
You’re often discussed as part of the alté scene pioneered in Nigeria: young West African artists experimenting with fashion and sounds that would be considered nontraditional where you are. You’ve described yourself and some of your peers like Nigerian artists Cruel Santino and Odunsi (The Engine) as “punk rock.” What does that mean to you?
I think punk is just a state of mind. It’s the state of mind I entered once I got into the space where I was like, “You know what, I’m just going to try everything that I possibly can. I’m going to do it with no shame, no fear—just this relentless feeling in my heart that no matter what, I’m gonna fucking make it.” To me, my mom is punk rock as fuck. She’s super prim and proper, but her mentality to always conquer is really some trailblazing shit”.
Prior to wrapping up, there is a review for THE ANGEL YOU DON’T KNOW, in addition to a new feature. Before that, The Guardian’s conversation from this January makes for interesting reading. One of the most intriguing aspects of the interview is reading what Amaarae hoped to achieve with her album:
“She is frustrated at the rest of the world for failing to catch up with Africa’s dynamism – this limited perspective jeopardises the careers of West African artists who fail to meet preconceived stereotypes. “They haven’t found ways to compartmentalise African music genres,” she says of the mainstream music industry. “They’re really not giving way for artists to progress globally.” Change is happening slowly, with British labels investing in the African music industry, but it’s cultural disruptors such as Amaarae and her collaborators Santi and Odunsi (The Engine) who are leading the way.
She is challenging values at home, too. The Angel You Don’t Know is dedicated to those who don’t meet society’s narrow definition of normality, and Amaarae’s lyricism also challenges West African views on gender, opening the track Fancy by dominantly exclaiming: “I like it when you call me zaddy / Won’t you sit up in my big fat caddy?” Talking about the project, Amaarae says: “It’s about emancipation, womanhood and sexuality. It’s about boldness. It presents the black woman as a deity, a god!” Tracks such as Trust Fund Baby and Dazed and Abused in Beverly Hills are explicitly hedonistic, money-hungry and sexually charged. “I’m just reflecting the thoughts of quintessential African women!” she says with a giggle.
Her album reflects the growth she has made on her musical journey. “One of the greatest mental barriers I overcame was letting people into my process and creative space,” she says. “I used to think if you were a true artist all your music, words and expressions had to come from you.” Working on this project made her appreciate the art of collaboration. “This record is so much more than just my expression but it’s also the belief others instilled in me creatively.” The Angel You Don’t Know “is about confidence,” she says. “It’s about swag, it’s about fearlessness”.
Just before I get to a new piece from NME, it is time to highlight a critical review for THE ANGEL YOU DON’T KNOW. In order to do that, it is back to Pitchfork. They have supported Amaarae’s work for a long time…and they keenly highlighted the brilliance of a wonderful album:
“Amaarae describes The Angel You Don’t Know as “non stop affirmations and incantations 4 bad bitches.” Her tongue-in-cheek side brings dazzle to the record’s light-hearted moments, particularly on Afropop anthem “Sad Girlz Luv Money” (featuring Moliy), a waist-winding anthem about securing the “mooh-la-la” that’s far more joyous than its title suggests. More imaginative still is “Dazed and Abused in Beverly Hills,” 68 seconds of indie soul that enjoyably parodies (and one-ups) the SZA knockoffs making Shazam-bait for cable-TV syncs. Another track is punctuated by a ringtone and a scream, and the album is bookended by thrilling snippets of hardcore punk, with shredding by L.A. artist Gothic Tropic.
Amaarae is private about her sexuality, but she dropped hints to her romantic life on the 2017 single “Fluid,” from that year’s R&B-leaning Passionfruit Summers EP, and featured drag queen pole dancers in another of her videos. These days she’s even more upfront, and rightfully heedless of gender norms. “I like it when you call me zaddy,” she purrs over 808s on “Fancy,” sounding like a soft butch poster girl looking for fresh meat. The video is a collagist tribute to seductive hits and her punk favorites, from JLo’s proto-OnlyFans camming to a Dream Wife body horror to the bright wigs and office furniture of City Girls’ “Pussy Talk.” It’s the rare moment in Amaarae’s world that doesn’t feel wholly self-created; even then, her authorial voice is clear. In one set-up referencing Missy Elliot’s “She’s a Bitch,” Amaarae wears a black leather bodysuit dotted with cowrie shells, the pre-colonial West African currency that is central to Yoruba rituals, pairing pop imagery with a touch of the divine.
But even bad bitches get the blues. On the purple-hued album closer “Party Sad Face,” she’s stuck at a predictable party and fed up. “Whole lotta gang shit/Peng tings looking out of sight,” she whisper-sings, sounding helpless and sad. She fucks to fill the void, with alté star Odunsi (The Engine) breaking his usual charmer routine for an unsettling turn as an abusive hook-up. “I’m down,” she sings numbly, ambiguously. “Down for the night.” Amaarae said that she left the darkest songs off this album, but—unless she went full Diamanda Galás elsewhere—it’s hard to imagine a more vivid descent into emotional oblivion.
Beyond her chameleonic roleplay, Amaarae’s humble roots are obvious—she dreams of the day she can buy her mom a Bentley. On the dancehall-leaning “Leave Me Alone,” she affirms her own worth with the calm of a zen master, singing, among bright and balmy guitars, “All the diamonds in the world don’t outshine me.” Her polyphonic approach to experimental pop brings to mind author and DJ Jace Clayton’s description of pan-global music in the digital age as a “memory palace with room for everybody inside.” Amaarae puts metabolized sounds through a distinctive prism, hitting on an insight: There’s room in the palace for her”.
PHOTO CREDIT: Yussif AlJabaar
I am going to finish soon. NME chatted with Amaarae earlier this month. They pointed out the fact that she linked up with Kali Uchis recently; Amaarae is enjoying a renewed interest in her debut album following a TikTok breakthrough
“Would you say your sound is aligned with the Nigerian Alté scene?
“I wouldn’t say that it was Alté, per se. I don’t even think I could categorise [my music] because there are just so many different types of genres and energies that I’ve tapped into. There’s one song on [the album] that I can say is Alté, for sure. But, in general, it was everything, from afrobeat to progressive house to baile funk to pop or trap. [My sound is] not always Afrocentric.”
Have you always been able to sing in a high register?
“No! It’s interesting: the other day I was looking back at my mixtapes that I did when I was in high school, and I used to sing in a much deeper voice. I think what happened was that by using my head voice, there’s a vulnerability and a sensitivity that you’re able to communicate in a way that is also very potent and cuts through. I could be saying the wildest shit – you know, like the most inappropriate shit – but whenever I say it in the softer voice and the high register, people just gravitate towards it. What you’re saying is an afterthought, so when it finally does click, it’s like, ‘Oh my God, that’s a bad motherfucker!’”
Stylistically, you’re always pushing boundaries. How important is self-expression to you?
“I don’t know if it’s about representation as much as it is about expression. I just want girls and boys like me — you know, young Africans — to be able to express themselves freely. We really come from a community and a society that oppressed expression, probably up until the last five years where the internet and Instagram started to become a thing and our cultural values shifted. It’s always about what I am doing to help the next generation of young people.
“Being an artist is a big thing because, for the longest time, it was taboo for young women to make music in Africa. My grandmother tells me all the time that you were looked at as some type of loose girl. She told me, ‘I get to live vicariously through you. To see you with pink and purple hair: these are things that I wish I could have done’. I want people to know that creativity can be a commodity through which you can earn money, and there is no shame in that. Creativity truly is the key to the world, and this is about helping African parents and young Africans to really understand that and embrace it.”
What does the future look like for Amaarae?
“I’m working on my next project, so it’s an exciting time. I’m thankful to have the fans that I do, because ‘THE ANGEL YOU DON’T KNOW’ was so well received – it’s given me the confidence to experiment and push my sound further. I really hope to be some type of light for young African women to just come in and kill the game. Whether it’s in music, tech, the business sector, aerospace, engineering… whatever! I just want them to be absolute rockstars in whatever they choose to do”.
Go and discover the essential music of Amaarae. She is someone who has a lot more to say. After a highly-acclaimed debut album, THE ANGEL YOU DON’T KNOW, of last year, I wonder what will come next. There are legions of fans who want to see her perform. Let’s hope that she gets to see as many people as possible! If you have not experienced the music of Amaarae, take some time to witness her…
INCREDIBLE sound.
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