When we talk about music collectively, we praise it for being this bastion of self-expression, of self-discovery, and creativity. We all seem to agree that if musicians give us anything — apart from entertainment, of course — it’s truth. And then the majority of music consumers fawn over artists presenting us with narratives which are wholly impersonal, narratives so intentionally vague or generic that they’re hard not to relate to, precisely because of how broad a net these images and sentiments cast. It’s the very antithesis of truth, but the apparent familiarity of these narratives is comforting in that they reaffirm what we think we know about love, or loss, or the human experience. What we end up getting is the same set of sentiments and images in increasingly similar ways, and we turn and we think, This is so true, so original. Except, of course, it’s not. As with everything, however, there are exceptions. When it comes to rap, those exceptions are becoming so scarce that unless you purposefully seek them out, the odds of organically coming across one are almost nonexistent.
Fatimah Warner spent much of her teens taking part in open mics and poetry slams throughout the Chicago area, and on Telefone, her debut project, it shows. Now, don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing on Telefone that is inherently inaccessible, all the images Warner stacks on top of one another are clear and crisp and neatly etched out with candid, straightforward language. Warner doesn’t shy away from speaking on topics like love and loss and depression, but she does so exclusively from a place of experience.
Take “Casket Pretty,” perhaps the song that could have turned cliché the easiest, which focuses on the violence in Chicago — or more specifically, the effect it’s had on Warner. “And I’m afraid of the dark. Blue and the white. Badges and pistols rejoice in the night,” she raps, clearly speaking about the current state of affairs regarding violence perpetrated by police officers in the U.S. Here’s the thing, though. None of the observations made throughout the track come off as preachy, or as blanket statements. Instead what we get is Warner’s own perspective, informed by her own experiences, nothing more. It’s a humble narrative, which in turn strengthens the punch it delivers when taken in.
That said, Telefone isn’t all “conscious” rap; not all of it has some sort of social message. Tracks like “Milk & Honey” are more akin to personal diary entries than they are open letters to the public, and while they may not be as immediately relatable as more mainstream narratives, they do succeed in painting distinct and individual pictures, aided by Warner’s half-confessional, half-metaphorical lyricism. The end result is that on Telefone, we’re shown a lot of sadness, insecurity, and grief coming from Warner, but it’s earnest. And that sincerity is worth a hell of a lot more than relatability.
