If you’re talking about Toronto music’s present, you’re probably mentioning Drake—but if you’re speaking about its future, you’re definitely mentioning SadBoi. From the sultry R&B that initially defined her style to the high-octane, baile funk-infused sounds permeating her latest album, DRY CRY, the west end native draws inspiration from the sticky, sold-out venues and adventurous DJs of the city’s party underground. Paired with her emotionally charged lyricism and cocky, assertive delivery, her music reflects the ongoing relationship between the rap, R&B, and electronic scenes—particularly the expansive possibilities posed by experimental and electronic Caribbean music. She joins a rising wave of young Caribbean artists, DJs, and producers from Toronto, like previous collaborators BAMBII and Jordior, who are bending the boundaries of what Caribbean music can be. On DRY CRY, she skillfully maneuvers between scenes, all while representing her roots as a westside (and West Indian) Toronto ting.
SadBoi hails from a Caribbean household and she laces her heritage tightly throughout DRY CRY, whether it be the seductively stripped-back island acoustics of “nana” or the Black Toronto lingo and Jamaican patois (including her signature “you dun know” tag) that punctuate her lyrics. A city of mass immigration with a heavy West Indian influence, Toronto is a hybrid scene of cultural exchange and exploration, and SadBoi’s Afro-Brazilian influences trace her distinctive lane. On DRY CRY, she builds on the foundation laid by her previous album, Bare Chat, and doubles down on her commitment to the uniquely erratic rhythms of baile funk, combining its cymbals and bass with the sweet sensuality of this past summer’s “sexy drill” wave.
Her flair for exploration is intentionally front and center on DRY CRY. Thunderous staccato kicks blend with bell-like metallic accents on “Rosa” and “Cunty”—featuring Paulistano producer DJ SAZE and Bahian rapper Duquesa, respectively—for a hemisphere-spanning sound that folds in both the raw dancehall inflections that reflect SadBoi’s Jamaican heritage and the elements of soundsystem culture present in Brazilian funk’s origins. Standout singles “Baddies” and “Slide” are heady, high-energy anthems that conjure warm-weather visions of glossed lips, short skirts, and nights spent racing down the length of Toronto’s Queen St. W. This is SadBoi at her best—floating over audacious production, delivering ego-boosting body talks that overflow with confidence: “Step outside I look too good, nah, this ain’t just on socials/Got all mans in chokehold, stand up, do you want a photo?” Delivering us directly to a sweaty Toronto dancefloor packed with queer, Black, and brown partygoers bubbling, wining, and twerking, she shouts out a favorite selector and MC (“If Jordior is spinning, then you know I’m gonna slide/If Kash dey pon the mic, then you know batty’s gonna fly”).
The T-dot cultural tributes continue on “Jane Baby,” where SadBoi glides over Cash Cobain’s alluringly choppy production as she pays homage to her roots in the city’s west end, home of Little Jamaica and the source of her creative inspiration (“He a jane baby/I loved his style/On Queen and Dufferin we was gettin’ down”). Fellow Toronto native Smiley represents the city on the Tay Keith-produced baile-drill hybrid “Fashion Week,” ad-libbing the affirming Arabic interjection “wallahi”—quintessential Toronto slang. By merging her funk offerings with the “sexy drill” sound, SadBoi’s music traverses some of the diaspora’s most exciting scenes.
For all its merits, parts of DRY CRY feel somewhat predictable. When “Dnd” and “Again” struggle to stand out from the pack, the thrill of the Brazilian funk sound starts to wear off. The lack of Caribbean musical peers is a noticeable omission—contributions from dancehall artists with a proven record of versatility, like BEAM, Stalk Ashley, or Skillibeng, would be a welcome addition to SadBoi’s roster of feature talent. Nonetheless, DRY CRY is transportive; it delivers you from the corner of Queen and Dufferin to the streets of New York and all the way to Rio, where baile funk’s pulse beats strongest. The album feels like a declaration of incoming supremacy from SadBoi—not quite a coming-out, but a confirmation of her rising star. Vulnerable yet assured, DRY CRY shows us a “real bad gyal” intent on spinning her joys and frustrations into global dominance, embodying the unyielding attitude of the city, scene, and culture that made her.
