KIWANUKA, Nate

Here, then, after the neo-soul throwback beginning and the second-verse-same-as-the-first follow-up records, and after the "prestige television show opening credits song" crest of awareness that surely must have come (because there are only preciousness few vehicles left for such bids at broad public awareness and if getting your song on the "Rich Ladies are Fighting" show isn't one of them, I'm on the board for PayPal), comes Kiwanuka's art play, his attempt to book future festival spots for himself, reach for Gaye's brass ring, his ploy to play Coachella six times instead of being welcome at Essence Fest for an eternity.

And guess what? It fucking works like a charm. Kiwanuka's voice is a weapon of holy intent and sacramental power, and if he can use it to make purple, 11th grade, "hits bong once" couplets like "Time is a healer (Time is a healer) / Love is the answer (Love is the answer)" sound like the word of the almighty god itself, he can use it to blow a hole in the sun. Let this motherfucker sing whatever he wants, now and forever, amen. I hear your snarky asides about Kiwanuka being Frank Ocean for normies and I invite you eat the entirety of my ass. Go build a staircase, motherfucker, I'll be over here, collecting my liquid soul into my hands.