Tay Iwar’s instinct as a singer is damn near impeccable. Blessed with a stunning voice that can transport a remarkably wide range of emotion without the need for any drastic adjustments in his candor, Tay’s voice comes with an innate understanding of texture. This natural disposition is why his performances on wax are always striking without the necessity of showing out – not much flattery is needed when the voice already flickers brightly by just being.
As much as his voice is a defining element, being a talented producer (and music engineer) willing to try out his vocal chops with an array of musical options is what brings his craft full circle. On “Thebox,” one of the standout cuts and the most popular song off his 2014 debut mixtape, Passport, Tay makes it know that his attitude toward musical boundaries is amorphous, better yet, he sees them as non-existent. As such, Passport flirted with a myriad of genres, a scattershot effort admirably held together by Tay’s impressive vocal performances.
With Renascentia, his 2016 follow-up EP, Tay took a more consistent and cohesive approach. Decidedly grounded in the nocturnal flourish of contemporary R&B soundscapes, the EP exhibited a quantum leap in songwriting, as well as greater control of his voice.
Gearing up to release his debut album sometime in the very near future, it’s palpable that Tay is emerging from his precocious phase in emphatic style. His new drop off last Sunday, 1997 – the year of his birth, via the Soulection collective, is a 3-song compilation flaunting the dazzling new level of all-round virtuosity Tay has climbed unto. From the eclectic yet highly congruent self-handled production, to the general stickiness of the songwriting, 1997 is a gobstopping manifestation of potential that is as apt – for a wildly talented artist like Tay – as it is unprecedented.
1997 is genre agnostic in the best way possible, beholden to a handful of musical influences but superbly retooled and pulled together for Tay’s own purpose. The Odunsi-assisted “Sugardaddy” – a nod to materialistic standards and a tacit celebration of recent, viral “small girl, big God” captions – is prime example of assorted production, morphing from the initial, silky slink of ‘80s New Wave into party ready, percussion driven Afrobeats.
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Caribbean&B opener, “Space” is propelled by sparse arrangement featuring summery keys, snare and bass combination for sultry bounce, before an infusion of conga drums halfway through the song gives it a fuller sound. Tay mainly acts as instigator here, providing a narrative with his hook requesting for space from a lover so he can “get away with all my dreams.” Both featured artists play out the roles in their respective verses; Santi pulls out his patois-heavy, melodic flow for full effect in depicting a savage lifestyle; Preye is sure that a comeback is imminent because she’s “a complex entity made of gasoline and spice,” singing her words with more vigour than she’s ever needed on her own songs.
Final song – and probably the best of the three – “Miracle Girl” also taps into a relationship with an underlying, detached guile bubbling beneath the veneer of sensuality. “Miracle Girl” is Christian Grey-esque – driven by sexual passion and compatibility, but also transactional – with Tay’s mood switching from “if you want it, you can get it” to “if I lose you, I won’t try no more.” It also happens to be the song with Tay’s best vocal performance, layering soaring and grungy harmonies over sweeping guitars.
The fact that Tay packs this much into nine minutes makes 1997 even more impressive. If this is just a trailer, the final product will be just as fantastic.