"I was fighting for my life just now," Yaya Bey told the Sled Island crowd, exasperated and out of breath. She explained that she hadn't been able to hear herself at all during the first couple of songs of her set at Commonwealth, not that anyone could've guessed.
She had handled the funk-driven early tracks of the setlist (like the bassy disco turnout of "chrysanthemums" from last year's Ten Fold) with the energy of a deep house Boiler Room DJ set. The only slight betrayal was the occasional look of unease that danced across her face for the briefest of moments before she once again surrendered to the trust fall of letting the groove guide her.
It was the eve of the release of the Brooklyn, NY-based singer-songwriter's new album, do it afraid. Bey emphasized how hard she fought to release this record, including walking away from a label, as well as decrying a reviewer for reducing do it afraid to being a record "about trauma" — which she claims she'll never make.
"I'm spicy today," she admitted matter-of-factly, having already rightfully called out some guys near me in the crowd, seemingly friends with the bartenders, who were talking loudly amongst themselves while she was addressing the audience, asking if they needed the mic.
This is behaviour that may be expected from a festival crowd for many, but it felt particularly disrespectful for them to be talking over a Black woman. Please consider the optics of this situation for a second, lads: in a mainstream festival circuit where R&B is egregiously underrepresented, to have Yaya Bey be one of the bigger-name international acts on the bill — in Calgary, Alberta, no less — was a pretty big fucking deal.
Like most genre markers, R&B feels like a workable catch-all way to describe Bey's music at best. In reality, do it afraid cycles through soca ("merlot and grigio"), jazz and reggae (the BADBADNOTGOOD-produced "blicky"), synth-funk ("dream girl"), rap ("wake up b*tch," "bella noches pt. 1"), soul ("raisins") and more across its 18 succinct tracks, inspired by the experience of going through her Saturn return — and being broke and going through a breakup — during the pandemic.
"You do the math. I'm damn near perimenopausal now and it's hot under these lights," she joked, admitting that, while she loves writing songs and making albums, she doesn't always want to be on stage. Despite that, she made the most of her contractually obligated 60 minutes, seamlessly weaving songs from the new album and cuts from across her catalogue with a grand assist from bassist Sweet Corey-Bey, whose show-stealing low-end expertise could give Thundercat a run for his money.
While some lack of respect from certain attendees and audio issues may have been frustrating for all, Bey was refreshingly real on the mic, whether she was cracking jokes, addressing the numerous ongoing genocides around the world, or melting her endlessly resonant voice around every note she delivered with ease.
The titular mantra of Bey's 2022 LP, Remember Your North Star, hung in the air, lingering long after she had left the stage. Without question, she's fully living it.