I’m not old enough to remember when mainstream rap was a vessel for Black collectivism and neither are the budding emcees of today. The hip-hop we fell in love with was predicated on the self: self-preservation, self-aggrandizement, self-promotion. If you, like me, were really young and impressionable in the late 2000s, all it took was a maniac screaming ’bout Winn-Dixie bags full of money to become a devotee. I mean, who cares what the message is if you don’t sound cool as shit on wax? All you need from hip-hop is something that affirms your ego. Something you can play loudly as you look in the mirror and tell yourself, I’m like that. Right?
kwes e, a Ghanian British twentysomething, fuses jerk rap, R&B, and alté with this in mind. His new album, fingers crossed, also positions itself as motivational—inspiring, even. He’s made it now, so he reflects on his past and celebrates the present: Day trips to Paris, money spreads at the mall, blood diamonds on his skin. But he’s at his best when he’s just tryna tear the roof off the place. kwes e’s Afrobeats-inflected smash “lyk” is what happens when liquid courage pays off in a room full of gyrating waists. To call it “electric” would be like calling a gun “lethal”; kwes e’s tequila-drenched, diasporic twang makes dancing with a baddie sound like gripping lightning with your hands. With a murky synth line cribbed from “Lollipop,” “lyk” erupts with galloping kicks, jubilant claps, and a bassline that hums like a generator. But as much as I enjoy this song, it’s fingers crossed’s centerpiece that holds my attention even longer with a simple piece of ancestral homage: “Ro-ro-ro-rock star like Fela/Rock star, rock star/Finna blow like Fela,” kwes raps as a G-funk lead whines in the foreground.
Charge it to today’s suffocating political climate, or the fact that I’ve been reading Ta-Nehisi Coates on my daily commute, but there’s something enriching about a young rapper showing reverence for a Pan-Africanist like Fela Kuti. And I’m not talking about the MAVIs or the Ghais Guevaras of the world—I mean the rappers who eschew lyrical density for the sake of apolitical fervor. As much as I co-sign the 808-heavy glossolalia, it’s all the kids wanna make nowadays. And with that we’re losing recipes; it’s one more bubble in a culture where anti-intellectualism is on the upswing. kwes e’s “fela kuti” is not going to achieve collective consciousness, but I think it’s super important to see pro-Blackness funneled through a channel where the youth go to have fun. When an upstart on a jerk beat renders himself in Fela’s image, it points someone out there towards his music and egalitarian message. It helps that the song is hard, too.
That fingers crossed as a whole doesn’t carry the sense of excitement of its singles is disappointing. In the bustling UK rap ecosystem, which is really just a microcosm of pop culture, an album release has to be an event. As its host, kwes e is compelled to remind you of how important this moment is. “Life tougher than the Margiela leather,” he intones on the intro, Auto-Tune glinting in negative space. The Hans Zimmer-type strings fade in slowly. “City lights in my face, nothin’ better/Shine like the slipper on my Cinderella.” You as the listener must taste the champagne, inhale the Baccarat, sink your loafers into the carpet. Only there’s no anecdotal detail to capture this feeling, just glitz-and-glamour platitudes and Travis Scott synth crunch. The intended allure ends up feeling hammy.
kwes e’s rags-to-riches motifs often take the form of household designer labels. “My future lookin’ bright, double G my shades,” he croons on “entitled,” “Yeah, my mama told me there won’t be an easy way.” His writing aspires to the hustle-or-die ethos of Dreamchasers Meek Mill, but what sets these two apart is the nuance that makes their bars feel lived-in. What you hear from the kid who struts the halls with his girlfriend is different from the one who tells you that his “goes to a different school.” “I got money girl, so I’m happy now,” kwes sings on “addicted to divas.” What does that happiness look like? The idea of luxury is central to fingers crossed, but the experience of it is distant and abridged. When the music feels just as trite, it’s even harder to buy in—especially “wouldacouldashoulda,” with YT, a track that takes the vocal stutters, schoolyard punchlines, and chintzy electronica of 2023’s #STILLSWAGGIN and makes it feel stale and overly premeditated.
Despite the weaknesses, fingers crossed is endearing because of how tethered kwes e is to his lineage. You hear it in the winsome jazz shuffle of “wishes” and the digitized djembe echoing through “entitled.” You hear it in kwes e’s openhearted affinity for his home country of Ghana. This unifying pro-Black element, no matter how vague, holds more weight right now than it has in a good while (see: Monaleo’s “Sexy Soulaan”). kwes’ chilled delivery and love for pop-rap maximalism can feel a bit typical, but he’s got a knack for earworms. Alongside “fela kuti” and “lyk,” singles “juggin” and “dorothy in red margielas” are among his best work. “7am” is even better, tinged with shimmery R&B that reminds me of hearing The-Dream in my dad’s car as a kid. With a Miami bass backbone, dollops of violin, and angelic vocal harmonies, “7am” captures that sense of plush indulgence without feeling saccharine. In the words of Fela Kuti, “music [is] effective like a weapon.” The sooner kwes e learns to sharpen his, the better he’ll be able to wield it.
