The multilingual East African rapper embraces a fresh, sure sound on her second full-length.
MC Yallah doesn't perspire losing all sense of direction in interpretation. The Kenya-conceived, Uganda-raised rapper shoots off rapid rhymes in Luganda, Luo, Kiswahili, and English, now and again staying up with 300 bpm singeli beats. "Regardless of whether they comprehend, it's the effect that I leave on them," the craftsman said of her English-talking audience members last year. "Music addresses the hearts of individuals." On her subsequent collection, Yallah Beibe, the MC stretches and snaps her versatile stream across cold thumps by makers Debmaster, Shigge, and Chrisman. With her particular stating and beguiling boasting, MC Yallah is an invigorating voice arising out of Kampala's Nyege Tapes aggregate.
Conceived Yallah Gaudencia Mbidde, the rapper has been engaged with the East African hip-jump scene starting around 1999, giving a modest bunch of singles throughout the next many years: 2008's "Abakyala (Ladies)," 2012's "Ndeete," 2017's "Mpambana," and 2018's "Chime Badi Malo." In 2019, she at last delivered her presentation collection, the scary, static-spread Kubali, a 11-tune project made completely with Debmaster. On that record, Mbidde hung her rich voice around Debmaster's rough beats to a calm, marginally tangled impact. On Yallah Beibe she embraces crisper creation, and her quick, presumptuous sections detonate from the blend. She sounds revived and certain.
The standard rap world is delayed to respect non-Western specialists, so Mbidde spends a piece of the collection singing her own commendations. In the midst of the fast fire bars of "Sikwebela," she requests her crown over trap hello caps and plinking keys that review John Woodworker's score for Halloween. On "Miniboss," she dedicates herself as HBIC; strutting across a modified woodwind circle and metallic percussion, her hard consonants pop like compressed champagne plugs. Mbidde has sharpened her novel meter throughout the years by returning to her earlier work. "I move myself by paying attention to myself, paying attention to my stream," she told Occupant Guide in 2020. "At the point when you will generally listen more to music by different rappers it undermines you a piece." When she composes, Mbidde goes through every one of the four dialects in her stockpile, trying out the rhythm of each tongue prior to committing her vocals to tape. Assuming she raps in Lugaflow, it isn't just to focus all the more light on the Ugandan scene, however to boost the musicality of Luganda.
MC Yallah orders the stage without help from anyone else, however her cooperative tracks are similarly as enrapturing. She welcomes Ugandan dancehall star Ratigan Period on the Chrisman-created club cut "Huge Bung," and his smooth, Auto-Tuned voice is an ideal foil to Mbidde's sharp and springy emphasis. On the goth modern "Nobody Appears to Irritate," Mbidde is joined by Ruler Spikeheart, vocalist for Kenyan metal band Duma. His gristly shouts tear through Debmaster's prison synths and scatter like broke glass under Mbidde's refrains. "I'm tired of all the underhanded that I see on the link/Siblings killing siblings, Cain killing Abel," she snaps in English. Mbidde recorded the melody after the homicide of George Floyd, and she subtleties the misfortunes that plague her own country. "Insatiability, debasement, human penance," she raps, prior to refering to neediness as an undeserving objective of scorn: "The Illness of realism is cutting further/In the event that you have not, then, at that point, you're treated as a pariah."
Mbidde explores the murkiness with vivacious bars and crawling beats. Probably the best melodies on Yallah Beibe, similar to "Nobody Appears to Irritate," sound transmission from a shadowy S&M club. On "Baliwa," Shigge lets out drum machine thumps as weak as icicles, while Mbidde pitches her voice to satanic profundities. As a line organ test blasts behind the scenes, she multitracks her expressions into an evil serenade: "Continuously despising... Continuously snickering." Mbidde finds some kind of harmony across the collection, however on "Baliwa" her chant sounds more terrifying than expected: an unpleasant reiteration that rises above language.
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