A-Q moves with the domineering swagger of a decorated army general. From his hard-nosed style of rapping to the assertiveness he displays during interviews, it’s obvious that a strong presence —with the intent to leave a striking impression — is Mr Bani’s speciality. For what it’s worth, though, no can say the man hasn’t earned his stripes. Tenacity has always been the name of the game for AQ, he’s always moved with a fearless determination, an attitude that has landed him in an excess of needless beef and has also helped him vastly improve as a rapper and garner more acclaim with each passing year.
I didn’t start following A-Q until 2015, which is just a year short of the 10 year anniversary of his 2006 debut album Listen and Overstand. Usually, catching a rapper about a decade out from their first project comes with the risk of discovering an artist past their prime, but that obviously wasn’t the case from listening to A-Q’s Son Of John (History Untold). The album was the work of a rapper carrying a fresh flame, a ferocious spitter with the vigour of a new cat fresh off the blocks. In a certain way, A-Q was a new rapper when I caught him, he was in the thick of what could be described as the second wave of his career at that point.
Talent is often discoverable from a mile away, and from my first listen to an A-Q song, it was evident he wielded a very strong pen. The caveat, though, was his rather rough delivery, which could be very grating to the ears. It can be difficult to zero in and thoroughly enjoy top-tier lyricism if the words aren’t conveyed clearly and concisely, and I was quite disillusioned from listening to A-Q pronounce words. I can still remember feeling like I was being driven on a road with countless potholes while listening to A-Q for the first time. Revisiting what I’d heard or reaching into the “Lekki Expressway” rapper’s back catalogue to check on what I had missed were the furthest things from my mind, I felt my ears had been bruised enough.
As superficial as it many might deem it to be, especially when a rapper seems to have high-quality lyrics, the voice is an indispensable quality that determines how listenable a rapper is. The ability to manipulate and put words together gives rappers the ability to put together a potentially intriguing script, but it’s the voice that gives the performance a tangible quality. When rappers attempt to build worlds with their words, the voice is integral in giving the end product its hue. Once enunciation is botched, the rapper’s flow loses pristineness, and the balance on the song is very likely to be thrown out of whack. There was no song on Son Of John (History Untold) that didn’t have exciting potential, it’s what kept me going on first listen, but it was difficult to enjoy the music because of A-Q’s elocution.
Despite my low level of enthusiasm, I got to listen to subsequent A-Q projects, including 2016’s Rose and Blessed Forever, one of last year’s best albums. With vivid, sizable improvements on A-Q’s path, I was able to develop an appreciation for A-Q’s craft on those projects. Also, following multiple listens, my ears were also adjusting in a way that made A-Q’s voice less jarring, but I still get conscious about his way with words especially when the excesses get too obvious.
In full flow, A-Q is like juggernaut running through walls; he tends to work best when he’s on a beat that bears the same level of aggression. This means maximalist, bass-heavy productions have a higher tolerance rate for his enunciation troubles. But on stripped down beats that could use some finesse, it’s not always fun to hear A-Q rap. I still struggle to understand the logic behind dropping the drums for A-Q’s verse on Blaqbonez’s “Lowkey;” for an intricately penned verse, he sounds like a 5-year-old in speech correction class.
A few weeks ago, A-Q was one side of the duo, alongside Loose Kaynon, that came out with Crown, the first album in the LAMBaugust trilogy. Prominently fuelled by a friendly one-upmanship, there were the handful of usual debates as to which rapper outdid the other on individual tracks and on the album as a whole – even A-Q and Loose had indulged in those discussions before the public laid ears on Crown. Revisiting Crown with these arguments in mind, it’s noticeable that Loose sounded more comfortable on cuts with relatively slower tempo, as opposed to A-Q. Songs like “Regrets” and “By Your Side,” which had tinges of dreaminess in their musical texture, contained well-written verses by A-Q, but they also expose how uneasy he can get with words.
I still maintain that Crown is a well conceived and well-executed project, it has good replay value and its irrefutable merits. But I can also remember remarking about how both rappers tend to crumple their flow during my first listen, and revisits only confirmed it was all about the word pronunciation. Loose Kaynon, the better of the two rappers in terms of this aspect, is also not fully exempt. With a husky voice often brimming with a seemingly natural confidence and a flow that can be easy on the ears, words tend to flow better out of Loose’s mouth compared to how they tumble from A-Q’s, but it doesn’t hide the handful of times when syllables slip out of order.
Prior to release, the most anticipated track on Crown was the Reinhard-produced title track, featuring Show Dem Camp. Based on the Oohs and Ahhs after it graced the ears of listeners, it’s apparent that the song delivered on its potential. In between Ghost and Tec were verses by A-Q and Loose Kaynon, and this positioning not only highlighted the dynamic between the two duos, but it also subconsciously set an enunciation benchmark of sorts.
Dividing “Crown” into two halves, you can draw parallels between the gruff aggression that’s common to Ghost and A-Q, and the suave assertiveness that’s common to Loose and Tec. Comparing based on word delivery and pristineness of flow, it’s not up for debate that SDC had the upper hand by a wide margin. Where turbulence colours A-Q’s delivery, there’s a burly stability to Ghost’s bars, and while Loose has issues with syllable residue on a handful of bars, Tec is clean and precise with each line.
For rappers, especially those who rap primarily in English, innate vocal textures play a huge role in clarity. If rap, as an acronym, means rhythm and poetry, it’s inherent that the melodic ring a rapper gives to their words carries as much heft as lyrical prowess. There’s not much a rapper can do concerning how their voice sounds—even trying to deliberately find a way to make it fit their cadence is quite difficult—but the crisper a rapper’s voice is, the better words flow out. The obvious explanation here is the natural, various accents many Nigerian are born with, which should definitely be taken into account while listening to Nigerian rappers.
Regardless, there are many others who pronounce words with the auditory equivalent of the Segoe script font. Alpha, who dropped his debut album Half Price earlier this year, raps like he uses a quill and an ink jar while writing raps – even when rapping in pidgin (“Yahooboy Muzik”), words come out in perfectly chippered shapes. Rappers like Vector Tha Viper and LadiPoe are often so smooth while rapping, it’s like being driven on a deserted expressway in a candy-coated car. Lord Vino, who is informally known as a slang generator, switches between English and pidgin without so much as a rough crease in his White Kaftan-esque cadence and flow. The earlier mentioned Tec, even with son of the soil shades in his vocals and ad-libs, enunciates words with the lushness of a well-manicured orchard. From eLDee to Modenine and M.I Abaga, all English leaning, Nigerian rappers who are often the first names down on GOAT lists, also have premium enunciation going for them.
Keeping up with a rapper that labours with word pronunciation is quite the unpleasant chore. Listening to indie rap veteran McSkill ThaPreacha’s recently released album, The 9th Chapter, was a chore. Although, I had found out about McSkill during the controversial “YRSFUYL” situation, when he, like numerous other rappers, delivered his own reply “Kill M.I,” also a cover of JAY-Z’s “Kill Jay Z,” I wasn’t very interested in going through his previous projects from what I had heard. Mostly down to curiosity, I pressed play on The 9th Chapter, but my enthusiasm ran out of the window faster than I could anticipate, but I sat—more like wrestled my way—through the whole thing. Even if he can be too righteous and heavy-handed with his lyrics, McSkill does have bars, but it’s very difficult to listen when he sounds like he’s rapping while chewing on hot Akara (Yoruba word for bean cake). Beyond the music, though I’m much more curious as to how he’s been able to grow and maintain a fan base across 9 projects with his word pronunciation.
There’s a song on The 9th Chapter titled “Death of The Mumble Rappers” featuring the infinitely more listenable Payper Corleone, which I found a little ironic because, with the way his jagged vocal intonation is set up, McSkill kinda falls under the same category of rappers he’s slighting.
As an acolyte of “traditional” hip-hop, “content” is the cop-out many might use in absolving McSkill, except rap is music, and music shouldn’t be difficult to enjoy. Whereas mumble rappers can lean on inscrutable word pronunciation as their own form of glossology on the way to delivering viscerally enjoyable music, rappers who follow aesthetics that abide by the rules of mechanical rap have to ensure that words aren’t only paper proof but also translate clearly in the listener’s ears.
In lyric-driven rap, what is said/written might often be the focal point of praise, but HOW it is said is just as important. The voice, like they say, is an instrument and every instrument is required to belt out the right note or else would likely be dismissed by the listener. If the words don’t sound right to the listener, the chance of a return is as good as non-existent.