Story: Lawrence Burney

Photography: Myles Loftin

Design: Iris Lee

Just over a calendar year ago, Kelela made the return her fans had been praying, pleading, and tweeting for with her second studio album, Raven. It was her first full-length offering since 2017’s Take Me Apart, an album that showed her enduring the uncomfortable process of dissecting personal relationships, primarily ones that were long past their brighter days. That project helped emphasize what’s made Kelela so successful in forging her own path for more than a decade, which is that her music has true dual-effectiveness. Yes, the lyrics tell deeply resonant stories about vibing with a stranger at the function and creating a fantasy in your head of what life could be with them as a companion. Or they may be about trying to hold onto a love that’s begging to be set free. But you could very well bypass all of that and just enjoy the heart-pounding production she engages with to tell those stories, which has always called back to the foundations of Black electronic music from different pockets of the world, thus thrusting Kelela’s sound into a borderless future that is constantly playing with multiples styles at once.

Raven built on that legacy, but it also achieved a pace that the Maryland-raised singer hadn’t yet executed up to that point. Where her Cut 4 Me mixtape and Take Me Apart felt like different moments of one long, bass-thumping night in the club, Raven has periods of stillness that happen leading up to — and after — the sweaty gyrating and two-stepping. It’s bookended by angelic incantations in “Washed Away” and “Far Away,” songs that give the floor to Kelela’s falsetto entirely, without the presence of drums. Instead, what lies underneath her admissions of feeling thrown off her axis — and the clarity that comes from new alignment — are meditative ambient soundscapes that accentuate her (and our) need for healing coming out of a global pandemic that ran parallel with intense racial unrest in the U.S. in 2020.

By adding those tranquil elements (there’s also “Holier” at Raven’s midway point), Kelela reminded us of how restorative nightlife spaces can and should be. It’s the pauses from the turn up that actually make the turn up more valuable here. At the end of the day, clubs do exist to entertain, but for a lot of people who traverse these underground sanctuaries, they’re also a site of refuge. Very few things rival getting over a shitty or emotionally-disorienting day/week/month with a strong drink, your favorite people, and the ability to hear the music you most adore blared at volumes that aren’t achievable in any other space. So, with this framing, we’re able to see the value Kelela puts into herself not only being an architect in the Black alternative world, but also an active participant who depends on it for survival. I think, more than anything, that’s what Raven makes clear and it’s a joy to view it through that lens.

The album’s interior still feeds the appetite for her forward-thinking approach to dance music. “Contact,” my personal favorite, is, in terms of production, somewhere between DNB and early-generation Baltimore Club. Crafted by Philly-to-Berlin producer LSDXOXO and frequent collaborator Asma (of NGUZUNGUZU), it chronicles a night on the town: hitting Los Angeles’ Interstate 405, bouncing from function to function, smoking spliffs, and getting swallowed up by the beat vibrating through a party. “Closure” sees her wanting one more night with someone who’s a good time but non committal. She’s joined there by Jersey rapper RAHRAH GABOR who shines in her cameo with hilarious references to the Chappelle’s Show Clayton Bigsby character. Intergalactic synths, bells and crashes lay under a plea for another chance on “Enough For Love.”

In early February of this year, Kelela returned with what’s become a tradition in her career: a remix version of Raven that recontextualizes the album by calling in producers and artists who also populate the Black underground ecosystem. On it, “Washed Away” goes from a calming ambient tune to a thumping beat made by Atlanta’s Ethereal with vocal contributions from Dallas singer Liv.e. Similarly, “Holier” gets a jolt of energy thanks to JD. REID transforming the song into something I’d like to hear a UK Drill rapper hop on while Shygirl offers some raps and melodies. This type of reconfiguration emphasizes Kelela’s gift for world-building and it also magnifies her commitment to paying it forward to artists in her orbit that aren’t often given the opportunity to shine outside of their respective corners.

In a series of conversations since the original Raven dropped last year, I spoke to Kelela about how her DMV upbringing influenced her musical identity, taking on a leadership role in the scene, how, in her absence, she was affirmed by her fans, and how the commitment to transformation is paramount to her survival as an artist.

I would like to go into your musical origins. I’m familiar with your jazz foundations and kind of your broader influences, but I’m really interested in your regional influences coming up. Because club music is obviously a strong foundation of your sound and Black punk culture was really pioneered in the DC area. As well as go-go. And I think all of those have shown up in your music throughout the years.

I love that question because I’ve never gotten a chance to really talk about that. It’s more nuanced than the broad strokes that I usually give because people ain’t tryna hear all that. There's so much there. My friend Asma and I, our musical partnership is so rich because we kind of grew up in this similar regional context and there's so much overlap in the subcultures that we passed through. Like the culture of tape dubbing and having go-go tapes. Your popularity was directly correlated to which go-go tapes you had access to. And then at the same time, both of us have gotten into some shit that has nothing to do with our sort of locale. It’s a wide range of some shit that feels down home — from the culture that we come from — and then there's other things that feel pretty far away from that. But when you look closely it is still very related.

My earliest memories — let’s talk about PGC 95.5. The Donnie Simpson morning show, in particular, would have a gospel moment to start your day right before some other shit. And then a go-go moment just kind casually creeping in. These things coexisted in a way and these days it's giving very separate. For me as a singer and just as a listener of music, I think it’s important to say that those things live inside me right next to each other. That’s before I was buying my own shit to listen to. Then I started switching to 92.3 when I could drive to get me right for the day with some Baltimore Club. When I think about what was going on, it's really such a beautiful thing to be in this conversation right now because it's bringing up the foundation of how I'm thinking about these things and how they don't feel disparate at all. It’s so obvious to me now, the fluidity.

That's why I asked about those early foundational influences because I think what’s always pulled me into your work is how it's a natural musicality. It doesn't feel like, okay, my theme for this is this. These things just bleed into each other because they are of you.

Yeah I’m not trying something on. You know what I'm saying? Club music is not new for me. When I go to approach it, the shit feels very natural and I'm not thinking hard about what to do. I'm like, yes, I know exactly where to go. And it feels very easy.

Even drum and bass, they’re all branches of the same tree.

All of that. It’s a language that I'm speaking and I don't know how I learned it. It's really cool to say that out loud now because I know that all those things were coexisting very easily and very naturally. I guess I just grew up in a time when that was very much a thing and it’s not a thing now. I think the other part is that there's different periods of time when white people decide to “legitimize” a certain subgenre of Black music and that's just a never-ending thing that keeps evolving and keeps going. And that’s what makes that subgenre rise to the top. That erasure of the past that happens when white people find something is another part of this that I think is going on in the background. That's what creates those divides. And part of the point of the record is to make those subgenres feel very much adjacent to one another. And to say that this was started by niggas.

That's one of the things I really enjoy about Raven. And it's not that this is like a new thing for your music, but I always appreciate how you give a particular type of space to the production. Sometimes when I listen to your music, I'm zeroed in on the lyrics. At other times I'm lost in the production. They support each other equally, but it just depends on whatever space you’re in. For instance, in the morning, if I smoke a jay and take a shower I'm probably gonna be focused on the lyrics. But if I'm out at a function and I got a couple drinks in me, I focus on the production.

That's the best feedback because I know that's how I'm listening to music. What I want is a layered piece of art, depending on the context, but also depending on where I'm at. You know, sometimes it's like I wasn't in that place all the way and sometimes I really was in that place. You might listen to a song and go, whoa, I never heard that lyric. Or it’ll hit in a different type of way. So for me that speaks to the richness. I am putting so much intention into the lyrics so that it's a standalone thing. Like, you could read them.

For some reason I've never seen you really speak about the Aquaphoria mix. Maybe you have.

I bring it up but people don't ask me so much about it. I bring it up because I was just doing what felt natural, but it kind of was a preface, in a way that I didn't realize, to this record.

That's why I asked, because it feels very aligned with Raven. Ambient music already can take you to a special place and then your melodies in the background are an added layer.

My goal was, I wanna give niggas a soundtrack for that moment and it traverses a lot of weird shit. It’s experimental as we’ve always been. Me and Asma did not know what we were doing but I felt like Warp wanted me to do a more hype beat-centric mix, I was very much not in that zone at all. I was listening to ambient music and I didn’t know what to make of that. So I told Asma let’s just go with it and make an ambient R&B mix. So we went into the studio one day and we just randomly searched — it’s giving Google — this was not methodical. But we found so many beautiful things and it was very fruitful.

Have you had any meaningful meditations on the fact that you’ve been doing this for just over a decade now?

It makes me think about staying true. I've started from a very vulnerable place. I've just never let that go. it's giving heart on the sleeve, it's giving, tenderness. Intimacy. Those things are just pillars, I think. And I feel really proud that that's a thread and something that I've started with. I've never turned. I could say anything through that lens. I know what I'm giving — in anybody's collection. And I think what feels powerful about it for me is that it also speaks to who my fans might be, what their perspective might be. What their value system even is. I think my fans, when they see each other they’re like, Oh, you love Kelela too? Ok! I fuck with you. I don't know you, but I feel connected to you. I feel so proud and happy that that is my legacy. That's what I've always wanted and it feels like it's a real thing. You know, I'm thinking about doing missed connections at the shows. I feel like the connection rate would be very high. Just because of why you might like this type of music, you know? I know that these are the things that people are craving right now. I think that we want a soundtrack for those types of feelings and I feel very happy to be bringing that.

I think that connection is evident. Because I feel like even when people were at their most demanding of you to put music out, it never was like she fell off or I don't know what's going on. I mean, it might have been like, I don't know what's going on with her, but I hope that she's coming back soon.

We exist right now in a culture of entitlement when it comes to the consumers. It used to not be like that. It used to be like, whoever's putting music out right now is who I'm consuming. Like, thank you, it's great. And then whenever somebody comes back, we'd be like, oh, cool, amazing. It wasn't giving like, WE WANT THE MUSIC, WHERE’S THE DAMN MUSIC. It was not all the way that, you know? And I feel like that context, it just makes it so that people are feeling very entitled to your output all the time. And we're encouraged to just be continuously producing. Never not. I feel like, my fans, it was giving: whatever Kelela is doing right now, I know whatever the fuck it is she's supposed to be doing, she’s making the thing that I know I'm craving. So let’s run up Take Me Apart and these little mixes. People would be saying it in the most considerate and holistic way.

You know how rare that is? It says so much. I would be marveling while reading. It was really touching for me. Cause I'm like, oh my God. Like, the fact that that is a value that we share, it makes me be like, wow, this is so powerful. I think a lot of my peers, they want to attract a certain type of audience and sometimes they’re mad about who they actually attract. That's a thing. It’s not until the pandemic when I felt like I was fully off the social media and not doing anything in the moment so people weren’t reacting to something. So whatever you say in this moment, it's just from your own volition. The music is sustainable. It’s gotta be because you just feel inspired to do that, you know? And when they would say shit, it would be like, just speaking to my real values , what I really care about. It would be really funny, but it also speaks to something vulnerable. I just felt really solidified and affirmed that like, yes, bitch, that's the type of impact that you are having. And that's how they're fucking with it. It’s not just hype. And for me there's nothing more that I would want as a foundation. Obviously I have ambitions to have more things and stuff, and hopefully provide a way for more people. That's ultimately what I would want to be able to do and get more resources to do it. But this is the most fulfilling and that's the thing that really matters. It’s this connectedness, this exchange that I'm in with my audience and how it helps us through.

Raven has been out for a year now. Any reflections?

It’s a great feeling just to get the music out and for me, the big feat of this past year and a half has been getting visuals out. I obviously had music videos before but I was able to express a range of feelings through the visual language that I wasn’t able to achieve on the first record. That’s a big part because there’s always been a whole world I’ve imagined up alongside the music. When I’m making music I’m in a movie. Just being an indie artist — I’m not saying we can’t bust through those feelings — but capitalism has a lot to do with the choices that we can even make. So that’s one thing I’m feeling so proud of. More than the music being popular or people fan-girling, I think the healing people have expressed and feeling supported is why I feel so fulfilled. That was definitely the point. I guess a lot of people use that rhetoric but for me it means a lot that people feel touched or safer or heard. Especially Black women and queer Black folk. I feel like I got my vision out.

Now that you say it, I guess a lot of my favorite Black indie artists who build these alternative worlds that you get lost in sonically, there aren’t a lot of videos coming out of that group of artists. With Raven we got to see those songs.

I’ve felt stunted by my circumstances, if I’m being completely honest. I wanted to do a video for every song on the record because it was bringing up so much imagery. I was like, we have to do this. I wasn’t able to do it for every song but between the original record and the five singles that we put out and being able to top it off with the remix vignettes, it really felt full circle. Sometimes our visions can’t come out the exact way we want them to and they take a different form. I’m glad I didn’t let it go. This partnership with Yasser Abubeker who’s been directing a lot of these visuals, we’ve had so much fun and there’s so much excitement. It’s grueling and a lot of work goes into it. I feel like his Janet, I don’t know how to explain it. We found each other and he feels so motivated. For me, I just wanted to do this with somebody for so long. I’m feeling so inspired by this period. There’s maybe three more vignettes that we haven’t released from the remix project.

How’d you and Yesser link?

My friend Mischa throws a party called PDA in London and that’s a site of so much convergence for me with the brilliant Black creatives out there. I’ve met so many people through her and at this party and the social sphere that surrounds it. I met Yesser through that community. I feel very much tied to the community and then we make art. That’s why, for me, it feels so rich. Our intersection isn’t just on a job. And when people are in the same community, it doesn’t feel like a commission. We’re not making hella money, it’s not giving that. It’s giving, where are we gonna find the money to do this? We’re on a constant quest, making so many decks. I’m a deck queen. Decks on decks on decks…This weekend I’m literally tryna figure out how I’m gonna do this DIY video for a song that’s coming out next Wednesday. That’s where our minds are. We just don’t always have the budget. There’s all these tweets I see all the time, a couple people were saying you can tell Kelela don’t have the same budget as these major label girlies be having but she flips that shit. I was like, period. That’s exactly what’s going on. Everybody knows it. It also speaks to my fans being critical thinkers — queer Black people who be thinking about shit will read you down but, also, the joy is so ever-present. It’s in the forefront. That commentary has been ringing in my ears. I’m dealing with one constraint and it’s resources. It’s definitely not anything else.

I love that the remix version of your albums is becoming a tradition. I’m curious about how you’re choosing your collaborators outside of the usual suspects.

Some of them are people who exist within the sphere of community I’m in contact with and see regularly. And it’s a lot of people who I’ve never met before. They might just be from Soundcloud. Like Flexulant is somebody that Mischa told me I should hit up. The edits were next level and it was clear that they would go in. What I’m looking for in remixes is a real reinterpretation and recontextualization. Something that makes me like, Woah this feels like a flip. Flipping is a practice that comes from the jazz girl in me applied to the club girl in me. I’m using jazz as my map, it’s the foundation that was laid for me early. That’s how I’m approaching club music and that’s what I’m looking for from these producers. The criteria is: am I feeling like I’m reimagining this thing? And now is the message — sometimes people can do this by chopping vocals, they make a new sense of the same message which for me, that’s the next tier. It gets me very excited and makes me feel like a nerd about this. What I really wanna get into is, did you hear how they flipped the lyric through this vocal chop? And now it says this. A great example is on “Cherry Coffee” MikeQ did a remix on the Cut 4 Me remix project, there’s one line that I pass through on the second verse: “Pray to the Almighty / That you figure out.” And he took just that one line and added a “Ha!” and it takes it to this gospel place.

Those two lines can start to mean something different when you hear them over and over. Like, I have to really take this in because this is all they’re giving me. That’s really the foundation of club music.

For me, that’s that shit. I don’t have a hard criteria but these are big signifiers of what makes me wanna put something on the project. Another example is the “Fooley” remix. The sample, said what I said. “I wanna submerge.” That is exactly what I was tryna say. I maybe said four lines that entire song but the lyrics that are there make a really clear implied message. He takes that and it makes so emotional; I’m on the edge again about an old feeling but it’s been brought new. Then it makes me feel more connected to the artist and my community. I’m like, Oh my God, I’m in this divine conversation with my peers that the larger community can witness and participate in and find catharsis in. That back and forth as a personal, one-on-one thing is so valuable but then the meta part of that where everyone can feel implicated in that, that’s also me. It’s so powerful. I feel like I make original albums so I can remix them.

Are you typically thinking of remixes even when you make the original albums? I ask because your writing makes it so the production can fit regardless.

I will say that I’m an artist with a pretty wide range of things I can do. I thought I was gonna be a jazz girl and I thought I was gonna be an indie girl. I could do many things and feel comfortable in those worlds but there is something about dance and club music that feels really expansive. Like, no one is gonna be like, why are you doing that? At least, not on the Black side. The white techno side is very mechanical. Like, why are you using that BPM? White culture guides what the vibe is. But when I think about how I can apply my range to a genre of music, it felt like dance music was the one I could start with and say so many things from that place that a lot of people would get. I think that’s because dance music feels so tied to ambient music. A lot of people who make club music already make ambient music. They have some other way they express themselves. And for me, because of that range, I can go into a rabbit hole of what is the original version. It helps me make decisions because I know this track will have many different lives. So tryna figure out what the direction of the sound is for a track, a lot of times, like on Take Me Apart I was working with songwriters and that’s the difference. Starting on a guitar or any cordal instrument is different from writing over a track that’s preexisting. I can expand the arrangement. So it’s like, is this a ballad? Should we double time it? We could do this on a harp. I have such a wide range of things I love so I can take too much time to decide. What the practice of remixing and editing saves me from is feeling like this is gonna be the version that I sing for the rest of my life like a lot of my peers. They’re not singing any other version live every time. There can be a beauty in that but that’s something I could never deal with.

We keep coming back to jazz. Do you see remixing as an extension of the jazz tradition?

This tradition to me is a very Black tradition, a Black American tradition of “I’m not tryna hear that shit twice” and improvisation being kind of inherent in what makes us think it’s good. So that’s a big part of what I love about these projects. You’re right, it is a staple and my legacy. I’m never gonna not make them. And I’m never gonna not approach music that way, in general. When I think about early Betty Carter vs older Betty Carter, I do want that kind of legacy where you’ve heard the same song — it is the same song — but technically these are not the same version. You’re gonna get a whole ‘nother thing from this. It’s so cathartic for me and fulfilling. So maybe I’m not writing to remix but I can make decisions quicker because I know that shit is gonna live many different lives.

Hearing Liv.e on the remix project made me think about you being on pinkpantheress’ last album and you talking about how you didn’t have a lot of peers in your space when you came out. Now, I would be willing to bet, partially because of you, there are a lot of young artists that exist now who are similar. I love to see that you’re reaching out to the younger generation and saying, this should happen. I love seeing the generational throughlines and the branches of a tree.

Maybe it’s like some corny elderly shit but I feel that way. I love the reach out and making you understand the connection over time. I’m reading this book — Blues People by Amiri Baraka — let me tell you something, it is tearing me out. And it’s making me feel very affirmed in my practice. The bridge-building and world-connecting that I’m doing. It’s something that I’ve thought about extensively when making music. I live on a faultline sonically and my approach, I’ve been deeply immersed in the jazz scene and those niggas listen to hip-hop and jazz. And then being in the white, indie punk space where they’re really immersed in that and not really anything else. They feel cut off from other things. Being in these worlds makes me want to make this point of finding the reason why I can hear when a Black person is making the music. What is that? It shows up in so many contexts. Like, where our traditions differ. So when the babies are coming up I want them to see that. There’s a level of isolation that I experience as a Black woman in dance music. It did not feel like I had a lot of peers who did similar things when I was starting off and that isolation, the remix project is a rebuttal to that. It’s my answer to that isolation. I’m drawing the lines very deliberately and saying to you, there is no disparity. These things are very much part of the same community. They’re different but look at how delicious they pair together.