Almost a year after his comeback album, Ikigai, artist Olamide returns with his self-titled 11th studio album, Olamide.
The title suggests a concept piece focusing on the artist’s life—a personal reflection or a defining statement about his artistic journey. It is, however, a desultory album that fails to tell a cohesive story.
Boasting stellar features, the album feels like a collection of left-over songs from various past sessions, discarded ideas, and half-baked concepts that never made the cut on earlier projects.
Seventeen tracks and 47 minutes long, the album neither impresses nor advances Olamide’s artistry. The songs are loosely cobbled together, connected only by recurring themes of street wisdom, fleeting romance, and self-assured bravado.
Olamide’s collaboration with Wizkid isn’t always stellar. It feels ragged, confused, and uninspiring. It’s disappointing to hear them struggle to spark any chemistry on the tuneful but lacklustre “Kai” and the vapid “Billionaire Club” (also featuring Darkoo).
Bragging about their wealth and fame, they instruct a lady to dance seductively on the dance floor. Despite using clever, persuasive street lingo, sometimes laced with exaggeration or humour, the songs fall flat, carrying the soporific mood of Wizkid’s R&B-leaning Soundman Vol. 2. As industry heavyweights, the artists themselves pull no weight here. These songs, perhaps, are a stark signal of their diminishing position in the industry.
Olamide, Seyi Vibez, and Muyeez all come together on “Free” but fail to do justice to the song, whose impressive rhythm is ruined by the artists’ unconvincing lyrics about money-making. Everyone phoned it in, lacking real emotion as though in a stupor. For redemption, Olamide enlists Asake, Seyi Vibez, Young Jonn, and Daecolm on “99.” With its groovy melody and sleek transitions among the artists, this track is slightly better than the insipid “Free”. Virtually everyone put in their best here, making the song one of the album’s rare standouts.
Writing a convincing love song has never been Olamide’s speciality. Even when the lyrics are decent, the indifference in his delivery often strips the songs of their emotional importance. “Luvaluvah,” which samples Lauryn Hill’s 1998 classic “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You,” is more about self-bravado than genuine affection. The Amapiano-Fuji inspired “Duro,” however, fares slightly better, its lyrics about unrequited love are modestly convincing, and the delivery feels less forced. He caps the love songs with “Rain”, in collaboration with the Jamaican DJ, Popcaan. The song’s melody merges with Olamide’s well-reasoned lyrics and rendition.
DJ Spinall produces the beat for “Indika,” a blend of Afrobeat and Hip-Hop, providing the foundation for the collaboration between legendary American rapper-producer Dr. Dre and Olamide. Dre shines brightly, delivering a commanding verse that proves he still has fire in him.
To complement Dre’s pristine verse, Olamide, alternating between singing and rapping, responds with his best performance, reminding us that he still has the fire in him when tagged with a worthy competitor
Mixing English with the Nigerian Pidgin and Yoruba, he reaffirms his identity as a rapper while elevating his Yoruba ethnicity with proud, sharp word play.
The brilliance of “Indika” segues into the next track, “1 Shot,” another highlight of the album. Still in his rapping persona, Olamide declares that he has just one shot at life to make his fortune. Here, he’s in the pocket, flowing seamlessly over the throbbing beat.
The album begins reflectively with the untitled track “Prelude” (featuring Fortune), hinting at a personal, retrospective piece. But, unfortunately, it devolves into a playlist of half-hearted experiments and recycled formulas rather than a purposeful body of work.
In the end, Olamide the album doesn’t tell any tangible story about Olamide the artiste, the label head, and top industry player. Instead, it feels like an album caught between nostalgia and relevance, unsure of its place in an industry that has rapidly evolved beyond its creator’s old formulas.
While there are flickers of brilliance, most notably on the Prelude “Indika,” “Rain”, “1 Shot,” and “99”, they are too few to salvage a project bogged down by mediocrity and creative complacency.
For an artiste of Olamide’s pedigree, this is less a triumphant follow-up to the promising and progressive Ikigai. But more of a cautionary tale about the dangers of resting too comfortably on past glory.
***Michael Kolawole is a screenwriter, playwright, poet and cultural journalist/critic. Catch him on X @mykflow
