When Queens-born Yaya Bey released her third album, do it afraid, in
2025, she yearned to move past the topic of grief after feeling her work
was increasingly viewed through the narrow lens of loss. That said,
there was plenty to mourn, from the death of her father, the acclaimed
Juice Crew MC, Grand Daddy I.U. as well as a creeping sense that a
particular Black American experience, the one she grew up in, was
disappearing. The week the album dropped, despite the critical acclaim,
she found herself on the road in a Miami hotel room, crying
uncontrollably. She wasn’t just tired, but also coming to the
realization “there was no place for that grief to exist that would not
become a spectacle. I had been holding it in. Maybe, to protect myself.
Maybe to prove the onlookers wrong. Whatever the case, it was spilling
over now.”
What Bey was pondering was “what part of that ache is specifically
Black?” and clarity followed. Yaya quickly returned to the studio after
last summer and crafted a new body of work, an album that works as an
accompanying piece to do it afraid, called Fidelity, the result of that
breaking point. It is a record born from a summer of reflection on what
it means to be a Black artist when your grief becomes a commodity,
another sob story for onlookers to feast upon. Fidelity
is a bold step forward, and in this new act, Bey moves past the
surface-level labels to examine what she calls the "Three Deaths": the
personal, the communal, and the loss of innocence.
The album confronts Personal Death through the passing of her father in
2022. Bey questions why the life expectancy of Black musicians is so
short as we continue to lose consequential artists, only to receive
their flowers too late, too far after the fact. "Why are we more
interesting as ghosts?" she asks, looking at the mid-career mark where
so many artists are left to die by a system that prioritizes the "shiny
and new."
On Fidelity, the social and the personal are inseparable. Bey explores
the Death of Home and community, charting the displacement of native New
Yorkers and the fracture of the Black diaspora. She critiques the rise
of Black capitalism, or the "individualism and tribalism" that have
replaced community solidarity. From the gentrification of her native
Queens or Brooklyn’s Bed-Stuy to the "diaspora wars" online, Bey
navigates the ways we’ve been pulled apart, weaponizing our differences
instead of addressing the collective ache of being "made new" in a world
that demands our constant adaptation.
Finally, the record addresses the Death of Innocence—the crash back to
reality for a generation raised on the empty promises of the 90s and Y2K
eras. Bey reflects on the transition from the "Golden Era" of Black
media to a landscape of global pandemics, state violence, and an
industry that exploits and disposes of Black artists that were once held
in high esteem.
The songs showcase Bey’s range as a performer from lead-off single
“Blue” which opens like a breath of fresh air to the project. Yaya says:
“Blue” is the first song I wrote for the album. I wrote it when I was
rock bottom coming off the heels of do it afraid. When I realized I had
to make a big shift mentally and emotionally or I was gonna drown. The
production is really reminiscent of early 2000's Pop/R&B like
something red-haired Kelly Rowland would sing over on one of her solo
projects. The nostalgia drew me to it. Almost like I'm coaching my
younger self through something. Which I guess ultimately I am.”
Equally bright and effusive, “Forty Days” glimmers with clarity, a song
with a heavy theme about a phase transfer that is unexpectedly buoyed
with a Disco-Funk confidence. “There’s a belief that after a loved one
dies you give them 40 days to pass over into the ancestral realm and
that got me thinking about what is the time frame for the grieving to
transition into a new life that is absent of the lost one’s physical
presence. How do both acclimate to new conditions of the relationship?”
Fellow Queens native NESTA drops in for “Egyptian Musk” , a surprise
chance moment turning into a key moment in the album. “I ran into NESTA
at an event the night before and invited him to a session. We had this
really dreamy reggae track that sounds like something old with a fresh
spin. I named it Egyptian Musk ‘cause it reminds me of the scent. Rich,
sweet and comforting.”
The core of the album is indeed found in its title. For Bey, Fidelity is
the ultimate Black skill. It is the ability to fall down and get back
up—to be "religiously joyful" even while the world is on fire. It is a
grand pivot away from a yearning for mainstream accessibility, and
toward a radical faithfulness to self and community. Fidelity is not
just a foil to do it afraid; it’s a reclamation. As she puts it, the
veil is lifting and the work is being done, and she’s still here. Cheers
to hers, and our fidelity.
Tracklist:
1. Me and Mine (feat. Samantha G. & Anastasia Antoinette)
2. The Towns (bella noche pt. 2)
3. The Great Migration
4. Forty Days
5. Higher
6. Dream Girl (Lexapro Mix)
7. Freeze Flight Fawn
8. Slot Machines (feat. Deem Spencer)
9. Simp Daddy Line Dance (feat. Exaktly)
10. As the Ocean
11. Blue
12. Cup Of Water
13. In the Middle
14. Egyptian Musk (feat. NESTA)
15. The Breakdown
16. Who Are You
