How NOT to write about music – 45. Noname


This makes me feel special, like Mr Rogers.

This makes me overcome my retrophobia for a few sweet minutes and makes me think that perhaps growing up wasn’t so bad, even with all the bullies and bigots crowding in.

This makes me think that perhaps I have always undervalued both jazz and funk exponents and that really there is nothing wrong with intricately layered sweetness

This makes me wish that I had known more grandparents than just one.

This makes me want to go racing through the streets like the ones always depicted in movies by the Coen Brothers – wide verges, no kerbsides and enough room to feel like, yeah I’ve made it bitch.

This makes me wish i smoked weed.

This is like male rap never existed.

This is beautiful melancholy, but sweeter.

This is what i imagine Christians must experience away from the mud and clumsiness of half-understood rituals, but I suspect they never do.

This is like The Simpsons on a Sunday afternoon, before series 11.

This is vintage Chicago – not that I usually associate the two worlds.

“This sounds like growing out my clothes, with stars in my pocket, dreaming about making my hood glow.”

Help me.

This is a colouring book.

This is Andre 3000, this is Missy Elliott, this is black identity, this is Noname.

This is the first album but I prefer the first album.

This is the second album and the second album is my jam, too.

This is soul magic. This is kosmik shit baby.