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The Sounding Board

Yaya Bey makes it sound easy on Do It Afraid

A weekly column where New Music Tuesdays live on. Conversation is encouraged in the comments.

Do It Afraid

Every Tuesday, the Sounding Board is a space for a short-ish review of a recent-ish release and conversations about new-to-you music. We’ll get things started with a write-up about a newer, likely under-heard album, and invite you to share your music musings in the comments.1

Making good hip-hop seems hard. 

That might not be the most incisive or insightful observation, but hip-hop is an art form that requires a good ear, lyricism and exceptional rhythm. Discourse around it is unnecessarily dramatic, extremely online and quick to dish out both hagiographies and pans. Hip-hop is also a genre that’s relentlessly tone-policed by both fans and detractors. Different critical factions are always ready to declare something soft and corny or thuggish and hyper-violent. Some of the best rappers alive are even defined by their effortful style — think Jay-Z’s studied laughs and stage-whispered asides, or the way Killer Mike huffs and puffs while bringing the house down.2

That perceptible challenge is what makes a truly smooth emcee special and captivating. Examples include the way Big Boi can conjure a buttery cadence to snuggly fit any beat or how Q-Tip seems to inhale oxygen and exhale tight rhymes. When she raps, Yaya Bey is that special kind of rapper. On Do It Afraid, the latest LP from the Queens singer-songwriter-rapper, her voice is warm, musical and immediate whether she’s singing or weaving her way through impressive double time. It’s rapping at the volume of a murmur but enunciated clearly enough for bilabial pops and alveolar clicks to sound off in your headphones. 

It’s both technically impressive and a great delivery method for Yaya Bey’s lyrics, which are emotive, thoughtful and clever whether they’re expressing rage, disappointment or desire; whether they’re focused inward or lost in big-picture thought. Being thoughtful in 2025 can mean processing a lot of dark realities, and much of Do It Afraid is spent working out anger, resentment and uncertainty. The dual gut punch of “It’s a recession they don’t say it but shit I know it is/ This shit depression I don’t say but shit I know it is,” on album-opener “Wake Up B*tch” is a great example of the harsh scene Yaya Bey can set with her velvet voice.

Do It Afraid makes time for joy, whimsy and escapism, too. “Real Yearners Unite” works in an extended Blue’s Clues reference into its Eastern-touched R&B. “Dream Girl” is ’80s-tastic synthpop that lets Yaya show off her falsetto while describing a tantric, neighbor-disturbing evening in with a loved one. “Merlot and Grigio” is an island-influenced good time with a boozy wobble, and the most effervescent song on the LP. “Bella Noches Pt.1” is a throwback to ‘90s club music with clapping percussion and pulsing bass.3

However, the album’s default setting is much closer to “Breakthrough,” a jazzy, piano-driven song with extremely pointed lyrics about feeling overlooked and physically drained. “Hit me with that, all that fucking gitchi, gitchi, ya, ya/ All you fucking leeches fucking swinging from my tatas/ Swinging from my tatas/ Swinging from my tatas/ Tata/ Tata” is a supremely memorable way to close a song. Despite that fire and creativity, Do It Afraid can be a little too much of a good thing at times. It’s 18 songs long, and its beats lean into an NPR-core sound that’s solid and sophisticated, but that can make eyelids feel heavy. It’s a hip-hop equivalent of a comfortable warm blanket. When that’s what you want, nothing feels as perfect, but it can make you sleepy, or — if you don’t need a blanket — feel stifled.

Thankfully, one of those stylistic jolts is almost always right around the corner to break up any temporary monotony and underscore how enjoyable Do It Afraid ‘s status quo truly is. 

  1. Next week, I’m planning to break format for some kind of mid-year roundup. ↩︎
  2. It’s fun to think of famous rappers who epitomize the extreme ends of rap vocals. The breathless bluster of Chuck D, the sometimes literal bark of DMX, and the gruff command inherent to Tupac’s rapping all put them on the rougher end of the spectrum. Andre 3000’s otherworldly flow and Snoop Dogg’s narcotized early hits are on the other end. There’s so much room in the middle, too. I’ll nominate Common for the exact midpoint. His nasal voice always sounds effortful, but he seems like a guy who doesn’t want you to see him sweat and raps accordingly. ↩︎
  3. I love when rap engages with ’90s electronic textures. Big Fish Theory by Vince Staples is a personal favorite for that reason. ↩︎