The most important component of Kali Uchis’ latest record, Sincerely,, is the comma in the title. Don’t worry: This isn’t a remark on the quality of the work, which is sterling, but a quick applause for ingenuity in creative conception. Without that little punctuation mark, the title betrays itself. Stylizing it as Sincerely would, in fact, cause it to bluntly fly off the page as sarcasm, whereas keeping the comma intact turns the record into a direct address from Uchis to her listeners, whether they’re fans, journalists, or those familiar to her in her own life. It’s amazing what a single pausing, separating barrier can do for 14 tracks—how much more language may await.
Whoever Sincerely, is for, whatever inspirations lie within each song, the album’s total effect is intimate—not necessarily romantic, but never anything less than soul-baring. In one moment, it’s moody, as on “Silk Lingerie,” its clearest dip into sensual sonic waters, or on “It’s Just Us,” uptempo by comparison but cerebral in its characterization of love as comfort: “Heaven on earth may fade away / But you and I are forever to stay in love / ‘Cause I don’t care about much anymore / It’s just us,” Uchis chimes on the chorus. But in other moments, Sincerely, expresses sentiments that, if not strictly ecclesiastical, certainly come off as spiritual. Love isn’t simply something people feel. It’s something that happens to them, that shapes them, gives them definition, and maybe even has the power to redeem them or the world around them.
There’s no better example of that motif at work during Sincerely, than among its closing tracks, “Sunshine & Rain” and “ILYSMIH”; taken as a pair, they paint Uchis as someone who is painfully aware of humanity’s fraught current state of affairs, and who therefore has significant skin in the game not simply on her own account, but that of her son, born just over a year ago in March 2024. “He showed me what my life was really worth / Down here on earth,” she sings on the chorus, later reflecting that the fact of her child’s existence is her reminder that dreams can, and do, come true—a miracle that, certainly not by accident, contrasts with broader anxieties Uchis speaks to on “Sunshine & Rain” minutes before: “Like, whatever happened to the human race? / Did everyone’s brains get melted and deranged?”
In short: Yes. Yes, they did. It is, perhaps, easier for folks who don’t have kids of their own to stave off their existential dread at the endlessly awful spiral we’ve been on as of, say, four months ago, though it would be unfair to accuse those folks of not caring; the point is that, when you are a parent, you come to care more, or if not “more,” than “differently.” Sincerely, spares overt politicism, but as Uchis is being truly honest with us about her life, times, and outlook, the record necessarily taps into political undertones by layering the love she has for her toddler, and for his father, Don Toliver (who she’s been together with since 2020), over her bewildered horror at the unrelenting calamity of life in this decade.
You half-expect tracks ending with or peppered by exclamation marks—like “Daggers!” and “Sugar! Honey! Love!”—to run at a higher temperature, but looks are deceiving. On the former, Uchis entreats her friend to break up with an unworthy neanderthal (“I hate the way that he treats you / Too dumb to know what he’s got”). On the latter, she makes a praise song of her son in his first appearance on Sincerely,; “ILYSMIH” is his last, and it’s a track rooted more in the awe felt in the first moments of achieving parenthood than it is in his teeny, tiny personhood. “Swear at this point, I’ve seen it all / So nothing shocks me anymore,” Uchis croons on the first verse, performing a kind of wariness earned by experience. By the time she gets to the song’s chorus, the exhaustion dissolves and coalesces into emotion verging on worshipful.
Sincerely,’s production value ornaments that sensation, and all others, with plush R&B vibes and a cool neo-soul atmosphere she tapped into a year ago on Orquídeas; occasionally, the experience mimics time travel, like Uchis is speaking to us from a studio in the 1970s. As enveloping as the record’s sound is though, let it be made plain, both through the power of Uchis’ vocalizing, the personal touch of her storytelling, and the complete absence of guests across each track, that this is her album, and hers alone; if not for that autonomy, it simply wouldn’t be sincere.
Bostonian culture journalist Andy Crump covers the movies, beer, music, and being a dad for way too many outlets, perhaps even yours. He has contributed to Paste since 2013. You can find his collected work at “his personal blog.” He’s composed of roughly 65% craft beer.
