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Candied Afropop rhythms of “Essence” work as an aphrodisiac. They are extremely sweet and immoderately indulgent, giving the track a wonderful ubiquity in a season of variable momentum. Above it, Nigerian singers Wizkid and Tems explain the physical and emotional surroundings of the court, sweetly speaking of desire, belonging and warm-blooded intimacy.
A song like “Essence” reminds us of the power of the summer anthem: its reward is not necessarily the location of the boards but the promise of nostalgia to come. It wants to be the soundtrack of our memories, the eternal witness of the days we don’t want to forget.
With cautious optimism, I ventured outside this summer and the “Essences” followed me everywhere I went. I heard Harlem rising from car stereos. I heard it at parties. I heard a melodious drop of wireless speakers in the evenings at Fort Greene Park. I heard it at the bar and at the club. I heard it from the high roofs. I heard it in DC, in Chicago, Mexico.
By the logic of the season, “Essence” is the perfect summer song, emblematic of a time when traditional singles structured for pop maximalism. That is, the song is designed – via streaming, radio and pop machine – to be where I am.
Over time, however, the experience of hearing “Essence” greeted me and everywhere I went, it began to feel mechanical. A big part of that is how music spreads and how it travels. Now we are deep a decade of lifestyle care. The news feeds we have on Facebook, the movies we catalog on Netflix, the playlists we repeat over and over in Apple Music; all of which is adapted to remove friction from our lives. Singles like “Essence” take advantage of this relentless indexing that gives the consumer control through algorithms and especially through the personal curator. But what if that way no longer works for us?
Intense loneliness disturbs the brain. The isolation of living alone in a pandemic, among other things, changed the way we listen to music. What I wanted was more control: directing all aspects of my life and listening experience, mastering my environment, especially the roar of the outside world becoming louder and more unstable. This drive for personalization is very appealing. In the end it gives us what we long for: the appearance of power. But that wasn’t what I needed. All I needed was to release even more.
They are music streamers it was built, we are told, with the discovery at the heart. But the experience of finding and listening to music doesn’t always feel like a worthwhile adventure. Initially, playlists reinforced these instincts for exploring music; expert playlists such as Spotify’s Rap Caviar have given credibility to creators like Lil Uzi Vert and Playboi Carti, expanding their reach exponentially. He found the playlists amazing, new. But as their numbers increased in size, gender, and impact, and this change gave way to an era of ultra-understanding niches, their power diminished.
They have also contributed to the rapid habit of listening to the rise and popularity of social media platforms like TikTok, where dance challenges have become a province of viral popularity (both for the creator and the artist). For the virtuosity that lives on the platform, pop singles – Megan Thee Stallion’s “Savage,” Weeknd’s “Blinding Lights” – have become synonymous with TikTok’s massive appeal, while artists at the same time create the next hit.
It makes sense. We like our pop culture easy and fast. This is why for some singles are more important than albums. That’s why artists like Drake calibrate their music —2018— Scorpio, for example – the way they do it: for as many viewers as possible. That’s why it seems as if some of the best albums of the last decade have been made to go viral on social media, rather than a unified sum, a rigorous solo collection. The albums were a target, a vehicle, but never a destination.
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