In the final moments of “The Truth,” the opening song from Waje’s new, sophomore album Red Velvet, the highly rated singer briefly leaps into a higher octave, spotting ear-rattling vocals, then dipping into a piercing falsetto before reverting to the default, warm singing that characterizes the song from the start. This stellar performance is not surprising from Waje, but it is nonetheless astonishing, a not-so-subtle reminder that you can count the number of singers who can pull such an act off on one hand. And it also serves as a fantastic intro into what is definitely the best album of her career so far.
Waje’s voice is her defining quality, as dynamic as it is powerful, which makes her eligible to try on different sonic styles on for size; her quasi-eponymous debut album was an interesting, if mildly successful try at diversity. But because an artist can doesn’t mean s/he has to, especially when overt gloss threatens to, or outright, paints over what clearly makes the artist distinct. While her voice still shines through on both her albums, there’s a level of deliberate insularity that prioritizes Waje’s voice, and by extension her writing, on Red Velvet as opposed to the level of anonymity accompanying the all-purpose aura of her debut. Red Velvet is not esoteric, neither does it scream “take me serious” like many musical pivots, rather it’s an album that demands you take Waje on her on own terms while being very welcoming.
Coming in five whole years after her first, Red Velvet justifies Waje’s long time away by being a worthy experience. In a similar move to that of friend and fellow vocal powerhouse Omawumi, who shifted gears significantly with her last album Timeless, Waje’s return is tellingly more focused, and it effectively, mostly hits the sweet spot of sounding like the album she actually wanted to make and the album frequent listeners would expect from her.
Red Velvet’s first half is its strongest, rolling out a superb sequence of songs, earmarked by a gorgeous flurry of affecting instrumental arrangements drawn from a variety of musical stylings, swathed in broad, soulful shades of blue, and pinned together by a consistency in tempo. There’s rock-heavy R&B (“Why”), finger snap ready pop (“Oh My”) and R&B with a predominantly hip-hop bounce (“Stupid”—where she briefly lays down a couple Ice Prince-like raps before, thankfully, going on to sing for the remainder of the song), all easing into one another to form a strong collection.
On these songs, Waje explores both the frayed ends and centre of love and relationships with a penmanship that’s a joy to behold. Preferring to be scenic, mainly from a first-person perspective, her writing has a lived-in quality that bolsters the authenticity of the songs, seeming like they were built around real-life events. This approach makes it easy for the listener to insert themselves into these scenarios, or simply picture them play out. The aforementioned opener, “The Truth,” deals with having to break up with someone without being in a relationship. “My love for you is as platonic as can be”—(ouch)—Waje explains as her reason, but is also gracefully aware of the opposite person’s feelings (“should have told you from the start/no wan use you do mumu”), even if it won’t do much for him.
Lead single “Oh My” subconsciously acts as the full circle point to “The Truth,” because as you’re curving someone else, another person is probably curving you as well. On “Oh My,” Waje’s voice, though playful, is bathed with the feeling of longing for someone who’s playing around, and her lyrics express this sentiment even further, leading up to the oft repeated, plain stated line “make me official.”
There are just two guest artists on Red Velvet, and they both show up on the album’s first half. Urban highlife devotee Adekunle Gold features on the reconciliatory duet “Why,” with bubbles of local percussions infused underneath his singing, thoughtfully and admirably stressing the rustic tone of his voice. Mavin record signee Johnny Drille pops by in all his buttoned-up charm, for a lightning quick but highly memorable cameo on standout song “Udue.” With lush, folksy production that’s just magical, “Udue” marks the utopian pinnacle of Red Velvet, a splendid, honeyed love song where Waje sings couplets of sweet nothings like “oh, your eyes, how they shine, lighten up my soul/the way that you smile, oh, it makes me glow” with butterflies dancing around her voice.
The second half of Red Velvet is far less consistent in tone. That’s not to say these songs are bad, they just don’t match the immaculate stretch of the album’s first half. “Soldier,” an autobiographical, resilience embracing afro-R&B bop starts the latter arch, followed by “Cam Dan,” a serene R&B song where Waje pleads for saner heads during a tumultuous moment in a relationship, and a softly striking moment that would probably fit better somewhere in the earlier sequence. “Be Mine,” a middling attempt at EDM, and “Got Sauce,” a rambunctious piece of Afro-pop, are clear outliers, not for being unlistenable, but because, compared to the personality-heavy nature of the other songs on Red Velvet, they are beige and vacuous.
Red Velvet closes on a more apt note with “Got Ya Back,” a riveting ode to friendship, set to exquisite, orchestral pop sounds. Wistful and personalized, “Got Ya Back” is the type of ending that’s befitting for Waje’s comeback, one that also doubles as a decisive, new beginning.