Asake stands as one of the most important figures in contemporary African music. His rise into the mainstream carried an unmistakable urgency, records that felt like direct transmissions from the street, built on chants, instinct, and raw momentum, yet refined enough to travel far beyond their point of origin. There’s a definitive control within that energy: Fuji cadences layered over pounding log drums, a sound that asserted itself before permission was ever part of the conversation. Across two years, he delivered what already register as modern classics in Mr. Money with the Vibe and Work of Art projects that expanded his reach while reinforcing his hold on the culture, embedding his presence into its fabric. With that foundation firmly established, this fourth project, M$ney arrives as a continuation of a legacy that continues to unfold.
The album opens with a brief invocation layered with Isizulu chants, the translated phrases “Let’s hold on, take care, let’s sing a song, we praise” establish a spiritual axis early, framing the project within a space of gratitude and continuity. That atmosphere spills directly into “Worship” with DJ Snake, where pre-release familiarity does little to dilute its intent. Structurally, the record leans on repetitive phrasing and cyclical chord progressions, reinforcing its devotional theme; Asake positions himself within a hierarchy of purpose, balancing self-belief with submission to something higher.
“Gratitude” extends this thematic thread but shifts the sonic palette. A prominent violin motif introduces a sense of orchestral warmth, while percussive shakers, reminiscent of Magicsticks’ textured minimalism anchor the rhythm section. The tempo lifts, but the subject matter remains grounded in acknowledgment: wealth, peace, and providence. The trumpet injects moments of vulnerability into the buoyant arrangement. The outro, swelling into near-symphonic territory, serves as a fluid bridge into “Rora”where the production pivots toward a more subtle interplay between groove and restraint. Interestingly the trumpet lines take the melodic foreground, while a faint three-step house pattern hums beneath. Asake’s delivery drops into a lower baritone register, adding weight to the lyrical content. The invocation of the Yoruba proverb “kárín kápọ̀ ló yẹ ẹni” (togetherness is fitting) situates the song within a communal philosophy, while the title itself suggests ease an antidote to the pressures of ascent. The second verse briefly resurrects his earlier, street-leaning cadence, sharp, chant-like lamba—before dissolving into the chorus and a beautiful melodic outro.
“Amen” intensifies the album’s core palette: Fuji-inflected vocals, recitations of Islamic chants collide with dense amapiano log drums and choral backings, The arrangement is maximalist and layered, percussive. Yet, despite its sonic fullness, the songwriting remains thematically narrow, circling back to prayer and gratitude without significant expansion. The transition into “Wa,” however, is abrupt to a fault, disrupting the album’s arrangement. Here, the focus shifts toward romantic pursuit, framed within a softer afropop structure. Eerie violin textures attempt to add depth, but the writing falters—rhythmic phrasing feels less precise, and the rhyme schemes lack the elasticity present elsewhere, leaving the track comparatively underdeveloped.
“MCBH” restores momentum with immediate intent. Strings and ethereal vocal layers introduce the track, but it quickly pivots into a tightly constructed performance. Asake’s cadence sharpens; the lamba returns with conviction, and the interplay between lead vocals and choral responses creates a call-and-response dynamic that enhances its memorability. This energy transitions seamlessly into “Why Love,” where amapiano’s rolling log drums and percussive shakers reassert the album’s club-ready core. The sequencing here is deliberate—romantic themes are introduced without sacrificing rhythmic drive, maintaining the project’s kinetic pulse. “Forgiveness” offers a moment of introspection, though it remains rhythmically anchored to the high tempo of the previous song. The chorus is built on a syncopated pattern that is structurally sound but lyrically underwhelming, but not underwhelming enough to disconnect between the musicality and message. The verses compensate—more fluid, more precise, and they sit comfortably within the pocket of the beat.
On “Oba,” the production becomes more expansive, and most especially different. A bass guitar leads the arrangement this time different from the usual violins and trumpet, grounding the track before layers of piano motifs, amapiano percussion, Fuji-inspired vocal runs and jazz influences gradually accumulate. The progression is almost architectural—each element introduced with intention, building toward a dense but coherent climax. Asake’s refrain, “every year it is my time,” is delivered with assertiveness, reinforcing a narrative of sustained dominance. “Badman Gangsta,” featuring Tiakola, slows the tempo and softens the edges. The chord progressions are smoother, the delivery more measured, allowing themes of wealth, blessings, and progression to unfold with less urgency. This restraint carries into “Asambe” with Kabza de Small, where house elements take precedence. Strings, shakers, and log drums intertwine, creating a groove that is unmistakably rooted in Southern African club traditions. The album closes with “Skilful,” a track that leans heavily on familiar amapiano structures. While thematically centered on romance and expenditure, it struggles to justify its placement as a finale. Both lyrically and rhythmically, it feels extended and unimpressive, almost like a track needed to complete a tracklist numbering.
Across the project, Asake continues to build within a sonic architecture he now understands almost too well. Fuji’s percussive phrasing woven into the rolling pulse of amapiano, rhythm stacked on rhythm until it feels like motion itself has a heartbeat. The music still breathes, still moves, still surrounds. But where it once felt volatile—edges frayed, energy spilling over; here it feels measured, contained, like chaos that has learned discipline. There’s a settled calm to the project, a sense of an artist no longer chasing footing, but moving from a place of awareness. That clarity reflects in the work: it’s cohesive, easy to sit with, confidently assembled. But in finding that balance, some of the volatility that once defined him feels reduced. The sharp, instinctive lamba that used to cut through records now feels restrained, and the street lingo that once carried his identity has been softened into the mix. What emerges instead is a cleaner, more melodic approach—rhythms smoothed out, choral textures more pronounced, delivery more composed. It’s refined, almost deliberately so.
The production does much of the heavy lifting—and it does it beautifully. Magicsticks paints with intention: pianos and violins that stretch emotion across space, bass guitars that hum with quiet authority and log drums that keep everything grounded in motion. The beats feel alive, almost conversational. They carry feelings even when the words fall short. Because lyrically, there’s a ceiling here he doesn’t quite break through. The ideas are present, but they don’t fully bloom. For a project circling money—its weight, its power, its consequences—there are stories left in the margins. “Rora” hints at one of them: the pressure of being at the top, the need to move carefully when everything is within reach. But that thread fades too quickly. The caution, the shifting loyalties, the private cost of public success—these are spaces the album brushes against without settling into. Even gratitude, which was a recurring motif, could have been stretched further—into family, into sacrifice, into the quiet relief of finally having enough.M$ney holds its ground securely, but it hesitates to ascend. While the sequencing is undeniably steady and the arrangements are highly competent, they rarely stretch far enough to feel definitive. It may not be Asake’s sharpest or most profound statement, but it is far from disposable—a thoroughly respectable entry from an artist who has already set an uncompromisingly high bar for himself.
Lyricism: 1.4
Production/Sound Engineering: 1.8
Tracklisting/Sequencing: 1.4
Vocals, Delivery & Execution: 1.6
Listening Experience: 1.5
Overall Rating = 7.7/10
