There’s always been a discernable sense of order to Asake’s chaotic process. From the first time I encountered him in the cavernous bowl that is Obafemi Awolowo University’s amphitheater as a student, the raw energy was invigorating, but even more thrilling were the elements that worked in service of his artistry.  One night at amphi, mid-performance of an entirely different version of “Joha” from the one we know today, he breaks into a peppy dance routine while surrounded by a team of contortionists, and as the side-show threatens to swallow him whole, he emerges from their midst just in time to lead the song’s anthemic chorus. Even then, his music had a kinetic quality that ensured that pacing, theme, and performance coalesced into an undeniable spectacle. 

Since the breakout success of 2022’s Olamide-featuring “Omo Ope,” Asake’s playing field has substantially widened. In the time since teaming up with the Street-pop don, Asake has kept audiences enraptured with dispatches of his experiences as he traveled the path from wide-eyed elation to more somber reflections on the lonesome burdens of superstardom. With Asake, the memorialisation of the journey has always been as important as the destination – if not more. 

There’s a thrill in retracing the steps to his blistering debut album, ‘Mr Money With The Vibe’ today, because as he moves from seductive charmer on “Sungba” to self-effusive party-starter on “Peace Be Unto You” via “PALAZZO,” his groovy DJ Spinall collab, you already know he’s building up to the completion of an arc. By the time you are hearing Asake’s supplicatory opening verse on “Reason,” there’s sufficient information to contextualize the devil-may-care disposition that his debut album cackles with on occasion. Tracks like “Dull” and “Organise” detail the taxing specifics of his grind thanks to Asake’s word-bending flow and Magicsticks’ deft fusion of genres that sizzles with participatory intention – no detail feels out of place. 

‘Work Of Art’ is similarly grounded in the realities of a world that Asake has roots in. There were fewer brighter moments in 2023 than when “2:30” made its presence known at the peak of the party. On days when the going got tough, “Sunshine” was a beacon urging listeners to strut on while there’s a summon to more revelry on “Basquiat.” Similarly, we bear witness to Asake’s passive-aggressive chest-thumping on “Great Guy,” a response to repeated criticisms of monotony. Guided by Olamide in the writing room, the world that Asake invites his audience into is thought-out, plotted, and brought to life with clarity; and enjoyment, regret, self-doubt, hope, and consideration are rendered in slang minted from Lagos’ principal Local Government Area, Ìsàlẹ̀ Èkó. 

On Asake’s third album, ‘Lungu Boy,’ the narrational rigor that powered his blistering rise wanes, leaving the singer on shaky ground. There is no connective tissue between most of the tracks as he attempts to piece together his growth from Lagos Island hood rat to global pop icon. There are big holes that are left unplugged and ideas that seem undercooked even if the intent is clear. Part of this comes down to the sheer weight of expectation that Asake is performing under: mere days after the release of his sophomore album, ‘Work Of Art’ last year,  questions were raised about the possibility of completing an unprecedented trifecta with his third. Too many times on ‘Lungu Boy,’ it feels like he is working with a heightened awareness of delivering on that expectation, while stuck on what direction to advance his story towards.  

Typically, the best Asake songs dissolved the weight of the world they existed in, moving across eras with a nimble placelessness that made the distance between the past and present a mere suggestion. That is not the case for much of ‘Lungu Boy’ despite a valiant effort to broaden the scope of his sound. With the exception of a handful of songs, there’s a sense of vapid listlessness creeping into Asake’s writing that’s compounded by a mixing process that sterilizes his usual frenetic sound. “MMS,” named after the singer, is essentially a pale imitation of Wizkid’s post-‘Ayo’ mid-tempo R&B style. It benefits from the strengths of the style and suffers from the weakness that plagues it; making  for a soul-refreshing groove that pleasantly washes over you at first until it threatens to suffocate you with lethargy. 

In the lead-up to the release of ‘Lungu Boy,’ a lot of the chatter around the project hinted at Asake introducing the world to Lagos Island and the quirks of its subculture, in order to contextualise his stunning rise. In a twist, ‘Lungu Boy’ only references Ìsàlẹ̀ Èkó in silos even if those songs represent some of the album’s brightest points: “Uhh Yeahh” feels like the sort of song engineered to headline a street rave in much the same way as “Joha” was intended, while the irrepressible “Fuji Vibe” pays a classy homage to the music that Asake heard as a child in Lagos Island, traditionally a Fuji stronghold. Even when his Fuji fundamentals are run through a Pop filter, the results are similarly admirable. “Suru,” enlivened by Stormzy’s verses, is a tale of redemption as much as it is a tribute to the restorative love of a mother. Similarly, the Travis Scott collab, “Active,” is a stirring declaration of intent that brings Fuji along for the fun via a sample of Jazzman Olofin and Adewale Ayuba’s seminal hit,“Raise Da Roof.” 

Asake’s mainstream run had barely begun when critics started to question the stylistic monotony of his Amapiano-influenced sound. Production-wise, ‘Lungu Boy’ represents the biggest recalibration of that well-wrought path so far. On it, Asake charts an entirely new path, taking a chance with eking techno beats and alt-R&B influences. It’s the sort of risk that innovators work towards much like Rema’s left-field turn on the incisive ‘HEIS.’ 

Production heavyweights, Sarz and P.Priime, set the tone for Asake’s new arc with a number of instrumentals that are mesmerizing and throbbing if also stripped of the live instrumentation that his early stuff thrived off. “Mentally” charts his insane global travel schedule and the demands of a life he’s long pined for, but lacks the emotive candor of “Nzaza” or the grit that fuels “What’s Up My G.” There is something markedly jarring about the choice of “Skating” as a peg for exploring new interests in his life. “Skating issa lifestyle / Skating Skating Skating / Skating is a part of me,” he drones on the song’s chorus. Asake’s flow sounds ponderous, perhaps unsure himself of just how he’s come to be into skating.

“Wave,” the Magicsticks-produced banger that follows “Skating,” sits in the lineage of Asake’s best songs. “Make nobody stress me, I’m on a wave right now / When I get marijuana, na to flex, na to chill right now,” Asake sings on the chorus of the summer-ready anthem. There’s a palpable sense of relief in listening to this song. It’s a much-needed reminder of Asake’s ability to impose believability on the ideas – destiny, romance, and living it up – that he touches on, while keeping the audience totally transfixed. It used to be that listeners could come to Asake for songs that started strong and maintained the energetic pace that animated them from the start. 

“Mood,” with its guitar and steel drum highlights, is forward-thinking but sorely lacks the propulsive energy that’s a key Asake feature. Put another way: too many songs on ‘Lungu Boy’ are identical and one-paced. All the talk about women in the backseat, the puerile signifiers of sexual indulgence, and being higher than he was yesterday sound exhausted and rote, leaving him a pace behind the world he attempts to front. 

Whether it is recognised yet or not, Mr Money is a linguistic authority, articulating the moods and feelings of the Lagos Island trenches for a world that has no understanding of the inner workings of that hood. That feel for language is what powered songs like “Terminator” and “I Believe” into ubiquity. On ‘Lungu Boy,’ it shows up in bits and pieces like on the opening stretch of “Worldwide” where he’s channeling consternation at his haters who want to see him fail while the Sak Pase-produced “Whine” is an industrial-yet-rhythmic offspring of the konto sound that ruled Nigerian pop in the early 2000s with help from Brazilian singer, LUDMILLA. They don’t go all the way but there’s promise in what they aim at. 

“My Heart” is perhaps the most emotionally wrenching song on ‘Lungu Boy,’ a clear microevolution on the dynamics of how Asake approaches romance, but it is not without its own reproach. “Atutu poyoyo she’s not from ghetto, speaking Spanish,” he tenderly sings in ode of his ideal woman that’s evidently not from the ghetto – but it’s a moment that show the stark disconnect between his idea of what a Lungu Boy is, and what being from the hood should represent, global stardom or not.

[Featured Image Credits/NATIVE]

ICYMI: REVIEW: ASAKE’S ‘WORK OF ART’