SZA is a dreamer; a ‘90s kid who cites Pepper Ann and grew up wishing she could hold onto her friends and memories before the clock runs out. She’s a woman who embraces love in one moment and dances away from it the next. Peeling back all of the pains, scars, sexual desire, and highs and lows of falling in love love, she has crafted a debut album in CTRL that stews and reflects in turns. As the other side of the gender spectrum is still busy — even in 2017 — trying to control women by demeaning their actions as reckless, SZA finds power in her impulsiveness, and scoffs at any man who dares question it.
For a moment, though, it felt as if SZA, born Solána Rowe, would never come into her own. When she was first signed to Top Dawg Entertainment, one of the premier incubators of hip-hop talent on the west coast, or maybe even the world, Rowe found a creative partner in Isaiah Rashad. She appeared on Rashad’s “Ronnie Drake,” off his 2014 EP Cilvia Demo, and the two sparked instant chemistry; later, she established her own sound on the haunting debut single “Child’s Play,” with Chance the Rapper, which quickly became a cult favorite track. Her momentum was building.
SZA further made her differences from other R&B singers apparent through early aesthetic choices; she shunned Barbies in favor of an idyllic love for Street Fighter, Nintendo and the tragedies of Shakespeare. There was no veer into a full-blown bubblegum pop lane, no tip-toeing between styles in an attempt to figure out who she was. Z, her 10-track EP released in 2014 introducer her properly, right then: Here was an honest and blunt songwriter who felt birthed from the recording sessions of Janet Jackson’s The Velvet Rope. At just 23, she had a handle and comfortability with her sexuality that felt foreign in our still-puritanical society.
But as the years went by, fans bemoaned the wait, and wondered on social media whether or not her debut album, then titled A, would ever see the light of day. Announced back in 2016, A turned into a non-starter, and left her career in limbo, even if it was still seemed buoyed by fervent fan demand. There were periods where Solána threatened retirement, openly fighting TDE to release her music but then cooler heads prevailed. CTRL is the result of patience, and the loss of control Solána endured on the fight to get it out surely crops up here and there on tape.
Unsurprisingly, control itself is a long standing metaphor on CTRL. SZA’s work with Beyoncé (“Feeling Myself”) and Rihanna (“Consideration”) was on tracks that helped showcase how those women exercise power and authority in their own lives. Through the 49 minutes of CTRL, we’re brought into SZA’s world as voyeurs, privy to her fights, her sexual romps with both boyfriends, acquaintances, and other women’s boyfriends, along with and the delicacies of finding empowerment in her own blunted words.
SZA’s talent lies not just in her honesty but how her music and voice convey a multitude of emotions, her stories are so empathetic, the listener immediately relates. On the cold chords of “Normal Girl,” she speaks to the desire so many of us have — wanting a mate who wishes for more than just a late night tryst. The song speaks to an even colder dating reality; despite the advances in technology we have to to increased opportunity for meeting people, the letdown and emotional smash of being disappointed still weighs reigns supreme in 2017.
CTRL begins with a flame set to months of memories and history and ends with a yearning for simpler things. She kicks off the album scorned, left alone on Valentine’s Day, and confesses to sleeping with her lover’s friend out of revenge for this. Yet, those open admissions are championed because they are real. Unlike the somber, earth-shattering perspective of Mary J. Blige’s Strength Of A Woman, SZA still can see the light through all the darkness.
When SZA opts to be crass or dive deep into her sexual bluntness, the results are humorous, if not enlightening. “Doves In The Wind” with Kendrick Lamar takes a dragging melody from Cam O’bi and a sample of Redman’s “Let’s Get Dirty” and constricts it around sexuality that’s more Lenny Bruce than delicate and flowery.
CTRL is an R&B album that, unlike previous recent entries from other artists heavily influenced by the ‘90s (see Tory Lanez), feels authentic and fresh. There’s trudging, head-knocking boom bap (“Doves In The Wind”); the 6-bit punch-ins that open up to military drum cadences in the sky (“Anything”), ‘70s shimmer, disco balls and gorgeous, delicate pop (“Prom”) and more. The drowsy, reverb-soaked guitar of “The Weekend” is more in-line with ‘90s era Timbaland, back when he was crafting records with Aaliyah, Ginuwine, Missy Elliott and Static Major.
On one the album’ standouts, SZA does her absolute best to match the tempo and glide of a slow-burning love affair; twisting the idea of being a “side chick” into a role of understanding and determination. “I mean I’m saying what kind of deal is two days? / I need me at least ‘bout four of them,” she sings on “The Weekend,” as if she’s making the world’s most sincere Indecent Proposal. Bluesy, guitar-laden melodies off the River Tiber-sampled “West” for the “Broken Clocks” and the James Fauntleroy assisted “Wavy” both find their own life.
Even more than vintage sounds from the past, it’s the older women of SZA’s life, her mother and grandmother, who define the album. They pop in with Southern wisdom and inflections throughout, offering their ideas of what control truly means. “If you don’t say something, speak up for yourself, they think you stupid, you know what I’m saying?” her grandmother punctuates the buzzy “Love Galore” with advice only a woman who has been there before will offer. Her mother sets the tone for the album with the opening to “Supermodel” as SZA maneuvers from feeling like a scorned lover to admitting her own infidelities and sings, which are reflective of how her own insecurities may have been, at least partially, to blame: “I don’t see it myself / Why I can’t stay alone just by myself? / Wish I was comfortable just with myself / But I need you.”
Many sing of the crushing realities of love and its aftereffects, but SZA spends much of CTRL’s back half singing about hope and self-worth. The conversations SZA has with her mother and grandmother throughout are a central part to the album’s theme. The way she lights up after hearing either of them speak through recordings on the album is testament to this. If not for these women, SZA wouldn’t have a grasp on what being beautiful and in command could feel like. If nothing else, CTRL represents the noble concept of protecting your heart at all times, by any means necessary. And sometimes, protection be damned, being in control is about being reckless.
CTRL is out now. Get it here.
