Camae Ayewa's rapidly expanding discography encompasses blistering hardcore punk (
Moor Jewelry), industrial hip-hop (
Zonal's
Wrecked), liberation-minded free jazz (
Irreversible Entanglements, the stage production
Circuit City), and so much more, demonstrating her ability to adapt her fearless, revolutionary poetry to several genres and forms of media.
Black Encyclopedia of the Air is her debut release for
Anti-, a longstanding indie label with a track record of work with legacy artists like
Mavis Staples and
Solomon Burke, and it takes her music in a somewhat more accessible direction while retaining the creativity and fervor of the rest of her work. Considerably less noisy than previous
Moor Mother releases like her 2016 breakthrough
Fetish Bones, the album flows through slippery jazz rhythms, mellow R&B vibes, and meditative ambient textures, with
Ayewa's lyrics remaining forceful even as she's delivering them in a softer register. She and her collaborators frequently transform their voices with pitch-shifting effects, adding a surreal dimension to the combination of deceptively calm music and intense lyrical themes. "Race Function Limited" has a fractured, footwork-ish beat and cool, shade-like ambient pads, and starts off with a verse by British emcee
Brother May about government disinformation and the spread of coronavirus before
Ayewa describes being born from "the guts of slavery" yet remains confident and defiant, assuring "I won't go away." "Shekere" is a languid jazz-rap tune with a sorrowful violin sample and consoling guest vocals by
Lojii, and "Vera Hall" is a similarly earth slow jam about Deep South slavery and Black rebellion.
Ayewa's self-assured "Water don't get wet like this" hook anchors the slinky boom-bap of "Rogue Waves," and "Made a Circle" is a poignant reflection on motherly love, with guest verses by
Nappy Nina and
Maassai as well as
Orion Sun on the chorus. The most experimental tracks arrive at the end of the album, including the abstract drift of the
YATTA-assisted "Tarot" and the bracing "Zami," a throbbing, claustrophobic nightmare that nevertheless has a bit more breathing room than some of
Moor Mother's earlier work. ~ Paul Simpson
