Nigerian rappers who’ve struggled to find their voices and remain untainted within the pop labels they’re signed to
It’s difficult to not be ambivalent about Skales’ career. On one hand, there’s the inspiring nature of his turpsy turvy trajectory, a commendable journey that has seen him eclipse the days of being the butt of innumerable, insensitive jokes about his inability to blow. In a way, the career 360 has made Skales the poster guy for resilience and unbridled determination, he’s already acknowledged that with the title of his sophomore album, The Never Say Never Guy. The mere fact that people love success stories, especially that of an underdog overcoming the odds, is why many can find it easy to root for and even defend Skales these days.
On the other hand, though, there’s the overall averageness seared into the music he’s been delivering since finding his feet, an extremely high percentage of it bordering on banality and driven by a “happy to be finally here” attitude. Since striking gold with “Shake Body,” Skales has put out 3 albums (a cumulative of over 50 songs between them,) none of which has been critically acclaimed. It’s fair to note that it’s the singles era and each album has produced a handful of hit singles for Skales, hence why it might be okay to give him a pat on the back. But then, every Skales project is upsettingly predictable: lengthy compilations brimming with songs that have no purpose other than attempting to become the next big single, a game of darts where at least one song has to hit the bull’s eye. It is an arduous task listening to 99% of the music on Skales’ albums in a setting that isn’t communal and somewhat ratchet.
Overly lacking profundity or the hindsight to substantially tap into his past travails in service of what should make for a compelling persona, the thematic bounds of Skales’ post-comeback music hang between concerning himself with the phonological roots of various types of derrieres and the intensity of the figurative heat being emitted by a lady’s midsection due to its alluring shape; in other words, his music is largely soulless and often without the type of rewards that justifies seating through his lengthy album.
But it wasn’t always like this. Anyone who paid attention to Skales during his early years, during his earlier days to Banky W’s EME imprint that is, can attest to his infinite talent, potential and swagger packed into his early music.
Like many, my introduction to Skales came by way of “Heading for a Grammy”, an energetic, declarative track containing a checklist of lofty ambitions, on which he was seemingly spurred by a drive to leave a lasting impact, without the slightest worries bordering on materialism. Obviously, the idea of winning a Grammy and garnering acclaim and supporters “from Oshodi to Miami,” amongst other things, is an order taller than the type of rim Yao Ming could dunk, but even if you scoffed at his proclamations, you had to at least admire the amount of belief Skales had in himself off the blocks. There was an undeniable mix of vigor and poise teeming out of his voice, and it didn’t ring hollow because Skales seemed to have the type of skill set capable of leaving a sizable dent on Nigerian music.
“Heading for a Grammy” happened to be a rap song, but subsequent offerings showed versatility; Skales had pretty good vocal pipes and he was very adept with melodies. Nothing about his artistry felt gimmicky at that point, both sides of singing Skales and rapping Skales coexisted organically without dissonance. As evidenced by his glowing, extensive contributions to Empire Mates State of Mind, the EME group album released in 2012, Skales immense abilities proved he could flourish on thumping bangers showing off his blistering flow (“Baddest Boy”) as well as relatively downbeat songs that coined in on his softer side (“My Baby”).
In retrospect, it’s quite shocking that Skales didn’t become a megastar on EME: His talent had been given a testing ground on State of Mind, and the backing of an already proven machine – the same one that was highly influential in putting Wizkid on the national map – was at Skales’ disposal. Somehow, it just didn’t work. But closer inspection posits that Skales’ affiliation with EME, the same label that put him on the map, may have also, rather subconsciously, been responsible for his stifled growth.
Being one of the first two acts signed by Banky W to EME, Skales began an almost impossible race against time the moment his counterpart, who happened to be Wizkid, started to become wildly popular by churning out hit songs. Skales already had the assurance that he would get his chance at the plate, but the problem was that he was already handicapped in a game he hadn’t even entered or seemed interested in playing initially. Once Wizkid became a star with hit songs, Skales was implicitly meant to play and win by the same rules – they were on the same team, after all, one that was synonymous with “confectionary pop powerhouse”. That isn’t to say Skales couldn’t make songs that had the potential to become hits, State of Mind obviously negates that notion. But the purity of his intentions, spelled out on “Heading for a Grammy,” became heavily tainted with desires to match Wizkid’s prominence at first bat.
The first single of Skales’ solo rollout, post State of Mind, was “Mukulu,” a jolly record possessing the verve and overt gloss common to many pop singles of that period. (Looking back, it’s quite apparent that “Mukulu” was a pacier, slightly more buttoned-up refix of “Komole,” his solo contribution on State of Mind that also received single treatment, as well as some applause.) “Mukulu” wasn’t as inescapable as any of Wizkid’s early smash singles, but it was a pretty successful song in its own rights. But then came the harder part; following up with a single that could eclipse, or at least match, the already set bar. Subsequent singles arrived, but none garnered the widespread attention that Skales craved, and it wasn’t necessarily for lack quality – “Take Care of Me”, which I consider his best song till date, remains criminally overlooked.
Being on a well-known label, Skales was guaranteed resources and a wider audience than he probably could’ve amassed independently. Skales and EME wasn’t a terrible match – neither party had any public fallouts even after parting ways – but it wasn’t exactly a match made in heaven as well, being affiliated with EME meant that Skales was being judged by unwritten rules that didn’t take into account his uniqueness as an artist, as well as any vision he might have had early in his career. With expectations skewed because of the clan he was rolling with, many expected Skales to come out the gates with nothing but hit single material and also become an outright superstar at the speed of light. When that wasn’t the outcome, a brazenly obnoxious public was on hand to make things worse.
Not all types of pressure forge diamonds, especially when couched in toxicity, sometimes it only fuels desperation. In a bid to quell naysayers (and also not look like an utter failure) after arrangements with EME expired, Skales’ eyes narrowed significantly, forgetting about mining his potentials as an artist and focusing on making flavourless hit songs for mass consumption, a mentality that has taken hold and is basically all that drives his music now. He’s thrown insight and a quest for musical excellence into the wind, while also abandoning his rap side – like a hybrid binding his adventurous werewolf side to settle for vampirism; a decision I can’t fault him for – all to better his chances at commercial success. Recent results show that his tactic is working.
While the constant checks he’s cashing and international gigs he’s amassing these days, stuff he couldn’t boast of while on EME, serves as justifications, Skales’ resurgence doesn’t feel wholesome because the accompanying music is plastic in its off-the-moment approach, lacking the same toughness he himself has shown over time. For an artist who fought against oblivion for a major part of his career, it’s tragic that the music he’s making is mostly destined to be a footnote, or an afterthought altogether.
Upon pressing play on Mr. Love, Skales’ recently released third album, a genuine feeling of sadness was all I could muster. Instead of being pissed off at the album’s overall tameness – I might be over that emotion with regards to Skales’ music – all that kept recurring in my mind was how someone so clearly talented had been pushed into an artistic upside down, trapped in the hollow of making insipid music because he’d been robbed of his earlier confidence and part of the identity that made him an exciting act to look out for. The ultimate rob is that we’ll probably never witness what Skales could’ve morphed into had he been able to explore the full breadth of his talents – he believes he’s found “his sound” – an understated consequence of being part of a stellar crew during his formative years.
On the same day Skales’ Mr. Love was released, DMW rapper Dremo also liberated his debut EP Codename, Vol. 1. After a couple of false starts on Davido’s eponymous imprint, Codename was supposed to serve as Dremo’s proper (re-)introduction, a chance to leave a memorable first impression. As such, the EP was given a considerable amount of promo and even hyped up to the heavens by his label boss as the type of project primed to leave a dent on African hip-hop. On its set date, Codename came, but it (is yet to) didn’t conquer. While the music is far from terrible, it’s also not entirely memorable.
The quickest observation to be made about Codename is how impersonal it is – beyond the opening cut “Nobody,” every other song sits on vapid ground. In tandem, it becomes quite obvious that Codename is sometimes a slapdash attempt at crossing over. To be clear, crossing over is not a detestable cause. But the problem with it in Dremo’s case, as evidenced by the weaker spots on Codename, is that he doesn’t always lean into his best abilities as an artist in the forefront. When in full flow, Dremo deftly marries quick wit with a sleek but edgy finesse, giving his verses substance and flair at the same time – check out his stellar verse on Ajebutter22’s “4AM”. But he doesn’t give himself enough leg room to showboat on Codename, sometimes opting to sound like a limp, peak Lil Kesh reboot atop DMW-type beats.
From a few indications – scattershot production and an overreliance on the musical strengths of big-name guest artists, including appearances from Simi and superstar labelmates Davido and Mayorkun – Dremo isn’t as interested in charting his own course as he is in riding the wave being provided by his association to one of the most prominent collectives at the moment. Dremo is currently the only rapper on DMW, a label stuffed to its ears with pop acts and pegged as a reliable hit factory these days. Add Mayorkun’s relatively rapid rise to stardom – signed on the same day as Dremo, he’s gone on to be a star in his own right, amassing hit songs, packing venues at his shows and winning the coveted Headies Next Rated award less than 18months after both of them had shared the Rookie of the year award in the previous edition – and Dremo’s situation becomes uncomfortably similar to Skales’ scenario at EME, and the “Bigger Meat” rapper isn’t handling it any better than his predecessor at the moment.
While the phrase appears a handful of time on his EP, continually embellishing the “rapper wey dey sing songs” persona in interviews is disappointing proof that Dremo is already diluting his early essence as an artist without bothering to explore it extensively. It’s the type of decisions that projects more head-scratching decisions might ensue, in service of chasing hit songs and keeping up with the brand he’s a part of.
As it stands, Dremo is walking on scorched Earth by trying to blaze the same path as his counterparts on DMW, who are savvier at finagling hit songs simply because their craft demands it. And even if he does flourish on a similar commercial scale, it won’t be as organic, coming at great costs to his projected prowess as an artist/rapper.
Dremo isn’t under much pressure to deliver a commercially defining moment right now – the infinite amount of belief Davido also seems to have in him gives him some form of assurance. But he is running out of time to make a strong artistic impression that justifies why he was brought into the DMW camp in the first place. While this is a difficult proposition because it doesn’t guarantee immediate success, making great music that reflects his uniqueness seems like his best option – the far from rousing reaction to Codename might be a sign that Dremo is better off situating himself with his own equivalent of bulletproof music rather than overly blend into the sonic aesthetic of his label.
It’s difficult for an artist to stand outside the shadow of a label that also doubles as collective in public perception, especially those with glaringly, differing skill set from the predominant musical style that pushed the brand into the limelight. More often than not, though, this conundrum applies to artists that can rap. For example, BrymO wasn’t required to rap when he entered Chocolate City, despite joining the ranks of a label that was predominantly rap centric. Obviously, in the current musical climate, rappers have a generally steeper climb to amassing nationwide attention. This means expanding their one-sided repertoire into a portmanteau to accommodate singing, or even flat-out upending their rap instincts, in order to better their chances at success. Being part of a prominent collective that churns out pop stars is a surefire way for such changes to occur, like joining the cool table means nerdiness has to be tucked away significantly.
During the heydays of Mo’ hits, Don Jazzy was well known for T-Pain-ing his artists, through his transformations of Dr. Sid and D’Prince. In probably the best identity surgery in contemporary Nigerian music, Don Jazzy reformed the good doctor, formerly a rapper, into a pop singer. From early hits like “Something About You” and “Over The Moon” off his grossly underrated debut album Turning Point, to latter smash songs like “Surulere” and “Kabiyesi,” Dr. Sid proved to be wildly successful. In similar fashion, D’Prince, who couldn’t entirely wipe off his slurried rap cadence, got his own artistic 180, landing massive songs like “Who Am I (Omo Oba)” and “Take Banana” in the process.
While Don Jazzy’s work with Dr. Sid and D’Prince is a massive accomplishment for all parties involved, it still required sacrificing parts of the artists’ original selves to fit the template of the label – they were called Mo’ hits after all. These identity Chan and the following successes most likely also informed Don Jazzy’s negative comments about the viability of rap music in the mainstream. Following backlash from the hip-hop community and probably with the gift of retrospect, Don Jazzy has reneged on his comments to an extent, by working with rap artists Modenine and Ice Prince. His clearest step yet, though, is the acquisition of LadiPoe, a massively talented rapper, unto his Mavin imprint.
Poe’s signing to Mavin took many in the Nigerian hip-hop community by surprise, but even that initial reaction didn’t measure up to the doubt many were feeling about a rapper many were touting as the proverbial one joining a mainly pop-centric label. Prior to signing, Poe wasn’t exactly the definition of prolific, and it felt like business as usual when with only two official singles – the thumping “Man Already” and radio ready, Tiwa Savage assisted “Are You Down” – released over a year after becoming a Mavin act.
However, confidence has returned recently, since the liberated of Poe’s first project Talk About Poe, on October 5. Before the release of TAP, the burning question revolved around whether the 10-song project would rely on Poe’s quality as a dynamic wordsmith or concessions would be made to fit label aesthetics. Thankfully, the former happened to be the case, with mainly favorable reviews accruing at Poe’s feet. Now, post-release, the next thing many are watching is if TAP is the marquee release to properly set the ball rolling, especially with regards to how well Mavin, a label mainly skilled at breaking pop artists, will be able to assist, market and turn a good rap album into a great career for Poe.
https://twitter.com/DONJAZZY/status/1048212552122028032?s=19
As interesting as it was to read Don Jazzy tweet “timeless barz,”with regards to TAP, it was a little weird to see; there’s still a dissonance that rings out in remembering Poe is a Mavin. What’s inspiring, though, about this arrangement is that the artist seems to have been given creative freedom while the label is mostly eager to support. With adequate support, as opposed to implied caveats, an artist growing into their preferred identity is a recipe for long-term success, it becomes more about “when” and less about “if”.
As important as talent is, finding the right home to groom and grow is just as important.