Nneka – Soul Is Heavy
And now, the first time the Jukebox has reviewed an artist who performs in Igbo…
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[7.00]
Sally O’Rourke: Oftentimes the trouble with listening to a political song outside its cultural context is that, even if you can appreciate the message intellectually, you’ll never get the full effect as someone who’s personally involved. On “Soul is Heavy,” Nneka narrows the gap between herself and her international audience by taking a more general approach to her country’s troubles. She doesn’t cite specific events, and the only names she mentions are easily googleable Nigerian heroes (Isaac Boro, Ken Saro-Wiwa, Jaja of Opobo). Unlike many protest singers, Nneka doesn’t have the luxury of letting her lyrics do all the work. Her measured, low-key rapping over an ominous metallophone loop feels claustrophobic, which makes her defiance in the chorus all the more exhilarating. Even a non-Nigerian can understand the desperation in Nneka’s voice and the passion for her country.
[8]
Anthony Easton: This is I think, more conceptually interesting, with the problems Germany and France are having with immigration and the nature of multi-culturalism, then it is musically interesting. There are worthwhile bits: the speeding up, the melodic way that the phrase “teacher teach me lies” floats over the rest of the track, the use of Igbo, and English — but it just slips past the mark of being truly worthwhile.
[6]
Brad Shoup: I like this for the deep veins of self-castigation in the un-rapped verses. She punches the gearshift for the chorus, a dread ghost invoking older ones. I can’t say I’m overly terribly impressed with the ruckus the track raises. While some wailing is summoned out of the guitar, the bass lamely trails the chord changes for the entire song. But still, she’s not calling out easy marks; the entire Fourth Republic is called out for greed and wheel-spinning, and at the risk of being one of those bougie sideline applauders, I want to credit her with that.
[7]
Jonathan Bradley: This song doesn’t get better than it’s booming first five seconds, a boom-bap throwback constructed of bottomless bass thuds, thwacking snares and eerie, distant, tinkling bells. Nneka’s vocal fits the shadowy instrumental; it’s both soulful and heavy. The middle-of-the-road reggae-rock on the hook doesn’t ruin things, but god I wish she’d let the tune ride on groove and atmosphere instead of reaching for a chorus that never coheres.
[6]
Katherine St Asaph: Soul may be heavy; so is this arrangement. Pare away the scaly layer of percussion on the chorus, and Nneka could take flight. She’s already hovering.
[7]
Hazel Robinson: This is powerful, not because of its message — although that is firm and well articulated — but because of her voice; only rarely have songs so justifiably angry had such swoon. Beautiful and impressive — the inevitable M.I.A. comparisons will be unjustifiably cheapening.
[8]