The year before Saba released his critically acclaimed 2018 album Care For Me, John Walt, the rapper’s cousin and collaborator, was murdered. Four years later and months before the release of Saba’s highly-anticipated, third studio album Few Good Things, producer and member of the rapper’s hip-hop collective Pivot Gang, Javunte Wheeler (also known as Squeak) was shot and killed.
John Walt (left) and Javunte “SqueakPIVOT” Wheeler (right). Saba/YouTube.
The day before the album dropped, Saba posted a short essay to his socials titled, “Before you listen.” In the piece, he does not demand anything from listeners—especially critics—before they consume his work. Instead he “challenges” them to see an album, inevitably influenced by the string of recent tragedy in his life, through a new lens. At one point, he writes the following:
“I get it. I understand how it’s easy to only get grief and loss and suffering out of my music, but let’s acknowledge the full spectrum of black emotion when dealing with this album. We grieve. And we also celebrate. And we fuck. And we get money. And we been broke. And we get happy. And we get high. And we are more than one thing all at the same time.”
The white-dominated industry of music criticism rigidly frames rap artists and their music against the mutability and range of emotions that actually mold their art. The case of Saba’s last two albums and their critical reception is a compelling place to begin. Though much of the music is “sad,” it is unfair to paint the albums as entirely tragic. Both albums contain stretches of festivity, hope, and unrestrained joy.
It seems as though, at least to some extent, music critics have carefully considered Saba’s statement. In a review of Few Good Things for NPR, Caleb Catlin argues that “Soldier,” while devastating, is not “an outright tragedy.” He continues, writing that the song’s production “features an unsure wind; closer to an overcast than a ravenous thunderstorm, it’s just what comes with life’s many joys and downfalls.” Indeed, Catlin understands that Saba’s music, like the man himself—and like life in general—is multidimensional and dynamic.
On the other hand, many critics have pigeonholed Few Good Things as entirely sorrowful. Holly Hazelwood begins her article on the album for Spectrum Culture by asking, “How do we create art in the wake of loss — and how do we create that art after we’ve worked the processing of that grief into our identities?” The whole review is imbued with the idea that Saba’s music is some sort of emo-rap, inseparable from the persona of dread he has created for himself.
What is, perhaps, even more concerning is the way in which Hazelwood seems to be infatuated with this sense of despair. This is by no means an attempt to single out Hazelwood, but rather a general comment on the way tragedy in rap music is often commodified, predominantly by white consumers. This sentiment is reminiscent of Vince Staples’ comments on record labels’ capitalizing on violence. He cites the recent rise of posthumous music as evidence. When one considers the financial gain studios make through such releases, the death of the artists themselves become profitable events. It is crucial, then, that the discursivity of rap music not be inextricably tied to violence, tragedy, and pain.
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A couple of weeks ago, Saba’s “Back Home Tour” stopped in New York City. Accompanied by opening acts femdot., Amindi, and Pivot Gang member MFnMelo, the Chicago native performed to a sold-out Brooklyn Steel audience.
photos by Obi Okoli
It would be a euphemism to simply claim the energy in the venue was palpable. In fact, the audience’s aura seemed to protrude from the walls, perspiring sweat and anticipation. Audience members could not be described as impatient; they were transfixed by Saba’s supporting crew. MFnMelo offered the crowd a taste of Pivot Gang’s classic rhymes, Amindi hypnotized the room with songs from her debut EP, nice, and femdot. repeatedly asked if he could “rap a little,” to which the crowd gleefully obliged.
Then Saba came on. He performed most of Few Good Things, as well as a selection of songs from Care for Me and his debut 2016 album Bucket List Project. I looked around Brooklyn Steel as other attendees soaked in the moment. Fans leaped in celebration during “Westside Bound 3” and “Survivors Guilt.” Couples, seemingly enamored with Saba as much as they were each other, recited the lyrics to “Calligraphy” and “Fearmonger” word for word. Throughout the room, plumes of smoke rose to the sky. Technicolor rays rained down from the stage lights, passing through the vapor. Even as Saba and MFnMelo gave a poignant shout out to Squeak and asked the crowd to yell, “Long Live John Walt!” it felt unfair to paint the scene as entirely melancholic. The feeling was simultaneously jovial, celebratory. And bittersweet. And intoxicating. And agitating. And mournful. And sublime. And it was more than one thing all at the same time.