There's a chune so magnificent that when I first heard it, I stood in front of my mirror shirtless and danced a very African dance. I basically shook my very tiny behind in a scandalous fashion for over 3 minutes. I wasn't drunk or anything like that. It was just that the song I was listening to was so good that I couldn't help myself.

Solange one of the best faces of the slogan, melanin popping you’re ever likely to find. I would never complain about anyone’s expression of their skin colour but there some expressions I appreciate more than others. Some people like to listen to songs that seem to say, “I bust a cap in that mother-fucker.” but I usually don’t. Those things feed into a stereotype that does not include me, and I don’t like that it’ll lead to someone somewhere taking one look at my dark brown orangeish face and thinking, "Here stands Afam the black man. He calls all his friends nigger, and he has a hand gun tucked away in his crotch. Don’t look at him the wrong way because he’s volatile and angry."  If there is a song about guns and shooting things that speaks of me, it’ll say something like, “I bust a cap in that clay pigeon. Bang bang I shot that clay aerial rat down.”

In Solange’s, A Seat at the Table there’s only individuality. Everything about it is hers, from the light airy vocals to the beautiful touches that each song seems to have. There are no ballads or club bangers in it. It’s an honest to God expression of musical creativity from her heart to yours. And it all lands. It doesn’t matter if you’re not particularly into Soul or RnB, music is a collection of notes, rhythms, and melodies that collude to produce an effective result. You’ll find yourself appreciating the details that are so carefully applied to every song and some interludes. Even the one minute forty second long album opening half song, Rise is praise worthy.

For me, Solange is a one song per album Afam hit wonder. That means that on every album  she’s ever put out there's one song I’ll find myself listening to for years. On this one, that song is Don’t You Wait. With a chilled beat and baseline that excites the nethers, it’s a hit any way you look at it. I have listened to it for two days without stopping and today is looking like the fourth. I bob my head, and sway from side to side. I would like to do more but that’s what you get when the bulk of your dance training happened on a dance floor with more white people than any establishment with a reasonable expectation of good dancing should have. I lift my head to the ceiling and close my eyes. It isn't a happy song by any means, but there's a vibe about it that feels like my life now.

The next thing after Don’t you wait, is an interlude called Tina taught me. Her mother Tina Knowles says,

“I think part of it is accepting that there’s so beauty in being black and that’s the thing that I guess I get emotional about because I’ve always know that. I’ve always been proud to be black. Never wanted to be nothing else, loved everything about it just there’s such beauty in black people and it really saddens me when we’re not allowed to express that pride in being black and then if you do it’s considered anti-white. No! It’s just pro black.”

It’s a brilliant all lives matter take down and an effective encourager of white tears. Much of the album is like this. Heavy material delivered with a falsetto, synth, and a stuttering baseline. It is always lovely when music is more than a pretty melody, and while this album has pretty melodies aplenty it’s a non-fiction novel about what it means to be a black woman in 2016.

Happy Days,
Afam

Many things have been said about the African waist and the booty that follows it. It's said to be the most flexible waist in all of waistdom, capable of thrusting in any direction, from every position. The African waist is so incredible that Tiwa Savage released an entire song about it called African Waist.

I quite like Tiwa Savage even though my affections are completely one-sided. First she married Tee Billz, and then she blocked me on instagram. But has that ever stopped any determined blogger? Though she may deny me access to her completely unprivate pictures, she cannot prevent me from listening to her silky voice on youtube.

As far as songs go, African Waist is  terrible. It drags on without rhyme, reason or agency, and some of its lyrics are senseless syllables that were probably written by a donkey on drugs. In most cases, entirely unoriginal references to lady buttocks are forgivable as long as they are accompanied by a devastatingly catchy chorus. In the case of African Waist the only thing you're likely to catch is a yet undiscovered visually transmitted virus that makes you believe that you're trapped in the newest iteration of the yet to be created television show, Nigerian Horror Stories. 

As if all of that weren't bad enough we've got Don Jazzy appearing as the perverted uncle who took life advice from fluorescent adolescent from the 1980s and a serial sex offender.

It's been a while since I encountered a loaf of music as unpalatable as this, but I have found a way that it may be enjoyed.

To enjoy this truly ridiculous offering you must do the following:

• Slam your head into a wall repeatedly.
• Snort Paracetamol through your nose.
• Crucify your eardrums.
• Colour out your eyes with a Sharpie. 

 If you make it through all that, then I'm sure that the lousiness of the song won't bother you. Ninety nine and three quarters per cent guaranteed.

This song gets no loaves from me.

Happy Days,
Afam

Hey Famzers! How you doing? I know that it's uncommon for me to be so prolific, but my dog died, so bear with me. I'm throwing all that ennui into the blog, and its betterment. And as I took a ten day vacay in the middle of February, views are down, and my blood pressure's up. So come one! Come all! I'm back and I'm taking prisoners. I'd be lying if I didn't admit that the competitive aspect of blogging and writing didn't turn me on. And I am very much turned on. Whenever I see someone, more popular than I, I get a little bit angry because there shouldn't be anyone, more popular than I; my tender heart tends to start to bleed. When someone's beating me silly at the blogging game, I see that I need to up my err'thang game and kill them dead. And as per usual, the opening paragraph isn't an opening paragraph at all. I'd think you'd be tired of this sort of writing by now, but you aren't, and for that I am eternally grateful.

The more devoted amongst you will undoubtedly recall that while I was in Edo cultural dancing my life away, I brought in a guest blogger to keep you fickle famzers from straying. This amazing totes amazeballs guest blogger (Olaisblogging), created something so brilliant that even after he's gone and got a job, I am inclined to continue his good work. So without further ado, I present to you the second bread review on the ramblings of a madman by Afam.

You've got to remember that I occasionally feel the need to name drop my good old blog, inside my good old blog, so that when you people google The Ramblings of a Madman, I Afam, the Rambling madman, am the only thing that comes up. 




I must admit that I'm a more than a little bit biased where this song is concerned because I spent a great deal of my time in Edo State (NYSC camp) dancing to it. Yes! It was what I was sashaying to when I tore up the mammy market in that god awful leaf skirt that left nothing to the imagination (you mustn't think that I mind leaving nothing to the imagination. I'm selling my market one awkward body part at a time) 

Yeah! That's the skirt. What can I say? Medicine man chic?

 The song starts with the lyrics, "I fit die on top your matter eeeeeeeeeeeeeeey baby oh!" You have to admit that it's a lovely sentiment even if it is more than a little bit dishonest. Chances are you won't die for the person that you're thinking of when the song is playing. But we must forgive his youthful idealism because he is young and because his face is the freshest face I have ever seen. His skin is like a baby's bottom pre-heatrash. His face has probably never sprouted a pimple and at 23 he remains suspiciously devoid of a beard.

The song continues with the lines, "baby girl!! God bless your mother eeeeeeeeeeeeey baby oh! you too fine pass mammy water eeeeeeeeeeeey baby oh!" That bit of it made me laugh. It's got a great sense of humour. Yeah why not tell the woman of your dreams that she's hotter than a she beast that lives only to seduce men and carry them away to unheard of underwater kingdoms eh? She'll take it in her stride. She'll smile at you and tell you that you're more important to her than her morning shit. LIES!! She will go to her room and cry like my best friend Wonwon did when Royodeboyo told her that she was sweeter than fried meat.

ps! I don't know that she actually cried, but I do know that the compliment caused her far more grief than any insult. 

After begging God to bless every member in the girls family, Wizkid goes on to explain that love isn't selfless or kind or unconditional, it's largely dependent on reciprocity.

"love me make I love you baby oh"

But we can't judge him too harshly for that because he proves that he doesn't support rape and sexual violence in the next line.

"kiss me make I kiss you"

If you follow this advice, you shall never be guilty of any impropriety.

All of that lyrical floury goodness is carried by a yeasty beat so effervescent that one cannot listen to it without being blessed with a hint of happiness. Like most Nigerian bread it's more than a little bit on the sweet side. And like all sweet things it can only be endured in small doses. The song suffers from a nasty case of diminishing breadness, where your enjoyment of the baked product diminishes with every bite. It doesn't become unbearable until the second verse by which time even the most staunch Wizkid supporter slams his head into the floor and screams, "WHEN WILL THE BLOODY SONG END?" or delivers a life ending slap to the music playing device.

In conclusion, the song features crumby and crummy lyrics super imposed on a spectacular beat produced by Del B. The beat, and Wizkid's whiny vocal embellishments save the song the way shitty bread needs more nutella than bread to be edible. The song is the musical equivalent of factory produced agege bread, and while this certainly suffices when one is in need of a bout of constipatition and some nostalgia, it is not healthy. As a result of this it gets three loaves out of a possible five.

Happy Days,
Afam