Upon each new Sault release, it is as if their music has traveled upon a comet, collecting samplings of a different world and ancestral wisdom, all before crashing into our modern music orbit.
Since their debut 5 in 2019, the British collective has made a name for itself by breaking music rules—redefining what it means to be a “musician” in an age dominated by bite-sized Tik-Tok snippets and their subsequent dance crazes. Arguably most synonymous with Sault is their privacy, as the group does not publicize its contributors, preferring to let the music live as a singular entity. Upon every new project, promotion is virtually non-existent and their covers often feature pitch-black backgrounds with scant words or images. That, of course, has not stopped interested listeners from identifying London-born producer Dean Josiah “Inflo” Cover as the project’s maestro, backed by frequent collaborators Cleo Sol, Little Simz, Chronixx, and Michael Kiwanuka. But, as intended, the real magic of Sault lies in their anonymity.
Every step of their journey has been a strategic move in a chess game of industry reconstruction, manipulating metrics and streaming culture with inconspicuous distribution and advertising methods. With their newest release, a simultaneous drop of five albums, they have achieved checkmate.
Materializing out of what could only be a certain cosmic dust, the albums arrived on November 1, 2022: 11, Aiir, Earth, Today & Tomorrow, and Untitled (God). Unlike their peers, whose music usually uploads to all major streaming services, the quintet was only available for five days on a password-protected file on WeTransfer. The password, which floated around Twitter and Instagram comment sections, was “godislove,” a fitting testament to the music in the file. (Note: After about eleven days, Sault added the quintet to streaming services.)
Between all five albums, Sault enters almost every musical terrain—neo-soul, gospel, contemporary classical, hip-hop, funk. And though each album is sonically different, their thematic tether of grounded spirituality and self-devotion serve as an all-encompassing thesis.
Most explicitly bound to this theme is Untitled (God), a twenty-one-track follow-up to their 2020 pairing Untitled (Black Is) and Untitled (Rise). The opener, “I Am Free,” wastes no time bouncing melancholic strings off a stinging snare drum and basslines, with Sol’s refrain gleaming through the instrumentation: “I am free, Lean on me I lean on everything, He’s my peace.” Untitled benefits deeply from this subdued storm of a starter, providing only a sample of the sonic showering that occurs in the subsequent 71 minutes.
On tracks like “I Surrender” and “Faith,” Sault explores the glossy synths of neo-soul and R&B. On the former, Sol channels a Solange-like equanimity, professing a series of musings and manifestations: “You have taught me patience, I have learned to give it time.” For “Faith,” a grooving 90s chorus is greatly benefited by Chronixx’s upbeat reggae verses.
Another song, titled “Free,” begins with vocal stylings akin to Anita Baker before floodgates open up to a feature from Simz, the 2022 Mercury Prize Winner, whose impassioned style of rap is fiery as ever. The following song, “Colour Blind,” calls upon Kiwanuka, whose velvet tone lingers with such serenity, it commands attention.
Untitled’s most direct ties to religious music traditions materialize in the form of choruses and repetition. On “Spirit High,” “Champions,” and “Love Is All I Know” a mass of voices bolster each other behind a steady bass and grooving drum patterns. On the former, the choir dissolves halfway through the track, melting into a moment of tenderness, with Sol’s vocals growing like a flame before reaching the apex belt. Although the music is deeply religious, it never feels overly preachy or exclusory to its non-religious listeners; rather, it opens itself to interpretation. In the context of their 2020 albums, such piety feels even more poignant; while Black Is focused on systemic workings and Rise centered the importance of community, God, as suggested, ascends to the individual’s spiritual connection.
Yet, somehow this individuality does not give way to an eremitic listening experience. Throughout, the music is grandiose, sustained by the power of a collective, a chorus of members intent on imparting their own luster for the sake of the whole. What arises is an abundance of cross-genre exploration, primarily why Untitled appears as an immediate masterpiece—a sense of musical multiplicity that never feels out of place or forced. What’s more remarkable is that it is just one point of an other-worldly musical pentagram.
On 11, the music from Untitled is pulled like taffy, as the group infuses more musical flavorings—an array of even groovier rhythms, darker bass, and thicker drums. The opener “Glory” sounds like a Jack White number with its brooding instrumentation and a distorted vocal. Just a few tracks later, though, “Together” tackles psychedelic funk with the same blithe disposition as a William Onyeabor song. On the ensuing number, “Higher,” the focus shifts wholly to Sol’s vocal prowess. And possibly the album’s most moving moment comes in the fourth quarter with “River,” where a lightened guitar ushers in the cushiony vocals of Chronixx, thawing over the lyrics: “Your love like a river running wild and free, Don’t rush, Take it easy with my heart.” At a glance, it feels overly simple, but as the song swells into a lush reflection on the unpredictability of humanity, it becomes impossible not to feel the movement.
If 11 opened up the world of Untitled, Aiir places the music within an entire universe. The only instrumental album of the bunch, Aiir follows their earlier 2022 instrumental release, Air, exploring the contemporary classical realm. Like its accompanying albums, Aiir also exists in a state of sonic fluidity. The music jumps from swift and urgent strings reminiscent of the Regency Era to a fluttering guzheng, all before flying back upwards with a majestic chorus of voices. It is unbound, and although stripped of lyrical content, presents as the most transcendental experience of the bunch, an effortless display of religion with its floating elegance.
Earth, as the title suggests, grounds the quintuple with the introduction of rawer instrumentation, African drums, chanting, and clapping. While the album is less direct in its thematic focus, its inclusion is still justified. Unlike the previously explored direct spirituality, Earth focuses on a more intrinsic etherealism rooted in our surrounding biospheres. Out of its tracklist, a crowning moment arrives with “God is in Control,” a Portuguese-sung track incorporating bouncy clap and drum patterns with a breezy bossa-nova flair. Later, the song “Stronger” summons the group’s earlier socially pressing works, crafting a stirring testament to one’s fortitude in the face of opposition.
Breaking away from the genres explored in the previous four records, Today & Tomorrow is a gritty indulgence of post-punk, as Inflo draws on the influence of his British counterparts who revolutionized the genre. Similar to Earth, the message of ultimate divinity is not plainly evident—but the passion and sheer level of energy that exude from each track indicate a musical freedom only granted by a godly inner knowledge. The contrast of youthful voices with hard-hitting instrumentation on tracks like “Lion” and “The Jungle” offers an enjoyably paradoxical sound.
Within the quintet what Sault masters is beyond worldbuilding—it’s the construction of a divine universe. In some measure, Sault has always built themselves around a godly identity with their facelessness, omniscience, and overwhelming altruism laying way to the creation of their musical universe. With that foundation in place, it was inevitable that the collective would release a selection of works standing as an explicit reflection of such an ideology. And while their work acknowledges manifold existence, layering a dissonance of sonic endeavors, it always circles back to the individual. Because within all of their godliness, it is the individual who must concede to this world, its ideology, and the teachings of its prophets.
That is why throughout 220 minutes of music, the focus never wavers from the listener’s desires: their love, spirit, and corporeality. The music is a vessel of self-reflection crafted for the audience’s gain—not only within the themes but, more importantly, the technique of release. Forgoing the fanfare of promotional tactics, and sparing their music from the extortion of creativity by mega-corporations, Sault is intent on music becoming somewhat of a religious experience. With their newest display of musical largesse, they prove that their creativity is a form of teaching—an unequaled offering of meditations and psalms comprising the Gospel of Sault.
They call upon a time when discovering music was sacred, a dedicated practice sprinkled with fate: days of shuffling through vinyl crates to find an unsuspected gem, chance encounters with an artist dishing mixtapes on city street corners. Streaming has made such destined musical encounters less significant, but Sault is keen on returning to this sacredness. And if the music continues to be this good, people will have to start adapting.