Ravyn Lenae is an artist from Chicago. Her latest album 

 pushes the boundaries of R&B. In Ravyn’s own words, it’s funky, somber, and up-tempo, switching seamlessly between the three moods and at times combining them. It’s a promising debut full-length from an artist who sees the value in taking time to create, letting the inspiration come to her organically rather than forcing it. 

She is currently on tour with singer Omar Apollo. On Tuesday, Nov. 8, they stopped by the Palace Theatre in St. Paul. Sounding more like a co-headliner than an opener, Ravyn wowed the crowd with studio-quality vocals and rapturous live instrumentation. We got the chance to catch up with her backstage after her energetic set. Listen to our conversation above and read the full transcription below. 

Who am I? I am a singer-songwriter from the south side of Chicago who loves to dream and sing. 

I'm on the Prototype Tour with Omar Apollo. We're about halfway through now. So, it's nice to be in the Midwest. 

What's the last thing you need before a show and the first thing you need after a show?

The last thing I need before I start my show is probably water. Like, right before like right before I go on, I'm like drinking a lot of water because I don't drink throughout my set, weirdly. I feel like it's a distraction, and I feel like I going to spill it all over myself because I'm clumsy. After the set usually, I'm really hungry, because I don't like to eat too close to performing. So, food.  

Do you have a go-to meal for after the show?

It depends on where we're at. Honestly, like here. What should I eat? What should I eat here? 

Well, this is the Midwest, so lots of stuff closes pretty early. If they're still open, and if you're not a vegetarian, I like Revival. It has really good chicken. The best here, which isn't saying a lot because it's Minnesota. There are a lot of good options. It's a surprisingly decent food city with a lot of diasporas, so you can get food from a lot of different kinds of immigrant populations.

Somebody told me that there's a big Ethiopian population here, so I should’ve gotten some Ethiopian today. 

Why did you title your album “HYPNOS”?

When I came up with the title, I didn't know it was already a word. I thought that I was real smart and made up a word. When I figured out that there was a whole story behind it and it's derived from a Greek legend, it made it make way more sense to me. 

Basically, it’s about a Greek god that puts people in this trance-like state and travels through dreams and like sends messages through dreams, and I feel like my music does that in a way. I would like to think of my music that way, as kind of trance-inducing and hypnotic in certain ways.  

I agree with you. It has that ethereal quality to it, even with the track titles, too, like “Lullaby,” for example. Do you have a favorite Greek myth or Greek deity?

I think my favorite Greek legend is Pandora's Box. I just love the idea of a world being kept in like this small thing and letting it loose kind of creates chaos and wonder and a whole different life in a way.  just love good storytelling in almost childlike approaches to art in music. 

, you said you have three sides: funky, somber. and up-tempo. Which one were you most trying to channel tonight?

Probably funky. I think when I'm when I'm on stage I try to tap into that other part of me that is big, bold, loud, and dramatic in certain ways. I feel like my favorite artists are able to turn it on a certain way on stage. I love the old drama approach to showmanship. I think some of my favorite artists or people that I love to see perform have that about them. So, I tried to channel that. 

I feel like you can see that pretty clearly in some of the people that you said influenced you like Chaka Khan, Minnie Ripperton, and Denise Williams. I would also argue Prince. Are you to him at all?

Do you have a favorite Prince album or go-to?

A lot of the stuff I love from him the most is his writing with other people. Vanity Six is some of my favorite music ever. "Nasty Girl,” just that whole era of women being very comfortable in their sexuality, showing skin, and being vulgar is really fun to me, and the fact that he was writing those songs is so impressive to me. 

You've been asked a ton of times why it took four years between “Crush” and “HYPNOS.” I was wondering, do you think people even have the right to ask you that?

I think it's natural for people to wonder about that, especially at a time when music is produced way quicker than that. When artists take that time, it does make people scratch their heads a little bit and wonder, “Why did it take that long?”  

So, I don't have a problem answering that question, even though it's a really big question and it's hard to answer. There's life, we went through a pandemic, you know? So, a lot of life changes made me want to sit still and wait for inspiration instead of searching and forcing it. 

Where does the inspiration come from for you?

I think a majority of my inspiration comes from storytelling. Whether it's friends, family, or just being out in the world, you know? So, when we couldn't do that over the last couple of years, it was hard for me. It was a challenge for me to think and be inspired beyond the four walls being stuck inside. So, I'm proud of the fact that I was able to work through that. I felt like I had to dream a little more in-depth and bigger because I didn't have that outside world to connect to. 

What kind of dreams do you have when you go to sleep at night?

My dreams are so vivid. This week, I've had crazy dreams.  

I had a scary dream a few days ago, I got bit by a rare spider and there was a mark on me. And somebody was like, “Hey, you know that that that bite is from like a spider you have 30 minutes to get to the hospital or you're gonna die right?”. So, the whole dream was me trying to get to the hospital. I called the hospital and they were like, “Well, we don't have any more trucks available to come get you. So, I don't know what to tell you.” And I was like, “I don't want to die, I'm not ready!!!” They can be real dramatic.  

Two days ago, I had a dream that I was in church. I haven’t been to church in Chicago in a long time. So, I'm like, okay, maybe that means I gotta go to church when I'm in Chicago and say hey to people, I guess. 

Sometimes I take my dreams very literally, because I'm like, why am I having them if I don't take them literally, you know? But other times, I'm like, my brain is on 100 right now and I need to take a chill pill. My mom says I've always been a very vivid dreamer since I was a little girl. 

You once said that there's power and stillness and silence. Do you think that's still appreciated in the world today and for the demographic that was in the venue?

Honestly, I think that we're coming back to appreciating that in music and in art. I think the pandemic taught a lot of us about patience and hard work, and how that pays off in real-time. I think that coming out of that, people do have a bigger appreciation for art and the process. How long it takes and how draining it can be at times, you know? But then, on the flip side of that, is TikTok, and that shit is very quick. But I do think that there are a lot of real art lovers and music lovers that appreciate that time. 

It's like when Kindles first came out, and everybody thought books were gonna die, but people still want to feel the pages in their hands. 

Yep! People still want vinyl and all of that.

There will always be a community of people that appreciate that time. 

So, for the people that appreciate that time and finally have “HYPNOS” in their hands, how do you want them to feel when they listen?

I want them to be able to sonically feel where I was at during that time and how I've overcome certain things during that time. Being able to connect is the main reason why I do music. Me being vulnerable and open through music pays off in a lot of ways. I want people to listen to it and feel seen, feel heard, feel appreciated. Beautiful. Loved. 

What's been the coolest or most unexpected reaction you've had to the album?

That's a great question.  I was so nervous about putting out animated art for I'm like, “My fans are gonna hate this shit”. They're gonna think I went over the edge, on some whole other stuff. But they were actually very receptive and open to that idea. They actually liked it and thought it was forward and cool. But I was like, “I know these comments are about to be like, ‘Girl, what the hell?’” 

How have you been staying sane and having fun on tour? Have you picked up any new hobbies?

That's a great question. I think the thing that keeps me the sanest on the road is seeing people who I care about and love and familiar faces while I'm traveling. Because I think people don't realize how isolating and lonely tour can get. So, when I'm in a city where there's family and there are friends that kind of fuels me and feeds me a lot of ways to stay energized and encouraged. 

What's your favorite food to eat when you go back to Chicago?

I mean, pizza, obviously! But I feel like dairy is breaking me out as I'm getting older. So I'm trying to stop, but it’s so hard! 

Black people don’t do deep dish in Chicago. 

Good to know. It’s a once-a-year kind of food, maximum.

I'm from the south side. Our pizza is Beggars Pizza. It's like really thick cheese, they put the meat underneath the cheese. People like to compare it to Detroit-style pizza. People think that Chicago is just deep dish, but we do the square, cheesy, meat underneath the cheese thing, too.  

But Black people don’t do deep dish, that's a misconception. 

That’s going to be the headline of this article.

Speaking of Chicago, I know you did something with SSENSE recently, 

a performance with The Era Footwork Crew.

I grew up around it. That and house music is literally embedded in me. When you hear songs like 

 I feel like that's me kind of getting off my Chicago in a way. But yeah, that's definitely a part of my upbringing and musical, artistic culture. 

It's been a cool thing this year to have Back people see themselves more in the electronic music space, too. I feel like it's expanding people's conceptions about what Black art can be. Have you seen that, too? Or am I just crazy?

Absolutely, and sometimes I struggle with the idea of it because it's like, “Okay, why does this feel elevated now?” Is it because it's white-adjacent, because it's in a museum? So, sometimes I do have thoughts around it that's like, “Why don't we feel this way when it's just in our basement? Or when we're at a house party?” So, I try to ask myself those questions and even think inwards about my own art and how I feel about it before those spaces are acknowledging my art. 

You also once said, “I make bad songs, but they just don't come out.” If you could give another piece of advice to somebody that wants to become an artist, what would it be?

I would say to find a community of people who are like-minded, and who have similar goals and a similar amount of drive. Coming from Chicago, that was major for me to have that sense of community, like, “Oh, you feel the same way,” or “You're going through this, too?” Being able to relate to and have people champion you in that way is important. 

Things that are important to me always stem from the things closest to me, and that's family and friends. Making sure I’m being the best at those things, whether it's being a girlfriend, being a daughter, being a granddaughter, or a friend, because I think that's what matters at the end of the day, making sure that relationships are fed, and through that, I can approach music in a clear and pure way. 

Questions written by Sanni Brown and Julian Green 

 and more streaming now on carbonsound.fm and 89.3 HD2.

Julian Green built and manages the music library for Carbon Sound and oversees content creation.  


Julian Green

Acclaimed R&B artist Ravyn Lenae chatted with Carbon Sound after her energetic set at the Palace Theater in St. Paul on Tuesday, Nov. 8.


Jessica Fredette

Ravyn Lenae talks "HYPNOS," tour,  inspiration, dreams, and more with Carbon Sound

Ravyn Lenae - Skin Tight (feat. Steve Lacy) [Official Video]

Ravyn Lenae talks "HYPNOS," tour, dreams, and more with Carbon Sound

Each week, we add new music, older tracks, which are known as “Gold adds”, and tracks that might not fit our general format, but still deserve a place in rotation because they serve our mission of showing the depth, breadth, and influence of Black musical expression - These are known as “Variety adds.”

We’re sharing this to get you excited to listen and to open up the floor for feedback and suggestions. If you want to request a song, 

. If you make music and want it considered for rotation, 

 If you want to give feedback directly, reach out to me at jgreen@mpr.org.

Keep all these tracks in one place with the 

 Spotify playlist. This playlist is updated weekly with all the new adds. When that playlist is cycled with new tracks, the tracks live forever on the 

 playlist. That playlist contains all of the music that we've added since the week of July 11 in chronological order of when it was added. All of the tracks available on Spotify, at least.

“Walked In” feat. Street Money Boochie & Travis Porter

All of the tracks added to rotation on Carbon Sound the week of November 21, 2022.


Natalia Toledo

New on Carbon Sound

Old on Carbon Sound

New Music on Carbon Sound - Week of November 21, 2022

Longtime friends Hosie Thurmand and Adam Kado are the owners of Slice Pizza, Minneapolis’ first Black-owned pizzeria. 

They’re proud to be Black-owned, but don’t want the label to define them. More than anything, they want their quality to be their calling card.

Watch the videos below to learn about how Slice Pizza was founded, what inspires the owners, and what everyone is listening to while making some of the best pizza in the Twin Cities.

Learn more about Slice Pizza on their website.

{"type":"doc","content":[{"type":"paragraph","content":[{"text":"","type":"text"}]}]}

Liam Armstrong

Minneapolis’ first Black-owned pizzeria shares their philosophy and favorite tracks to play in the kitchen with Carbon Sound.


Get to know Slice Pizza

Sometimes, it really is all about that bass.

 found that people danced 12% more when very low frequency bass was played.

The study was done by scientists at the LIVElab at McMaster University in Ontario, Canada, who wanted to see what musical ingredients make us want to dance.

"We look at things like what kinds of rhythms most pull people into that steady beat that we groove along with, and what kinds of interesting, syncopated, complex rhythms make us really drawn in and want to move more," said Daniel Cameron, a neuroscientist and the lead author of the study.

Now, the lab for this experiment wasn't the classic fluorescent lights, white coats and goggles setup. Instead, the LIVElab space was converted into an electronic dance music concert, and EDM duo Orphx performed live for volunteers adorned with headbands that had a motion capture sensor.

The lab was equipped with special special speakers that can play a very low frequency bass, undetectable to the human ear. The set lasted about an hour, and researchers introduced that very low bass every 2.5 minutes, and found that the concertgoers moved more when the speakers were on – even though they couldn't hear it.

Cameron said our vestibular system can help explain why.

"It's the inner-ear structures that give us a sense of where our head is in space," he said. "That system is sensitive to low-frequency stimulation, especially if it's loud."

"We also know that our tactile system, that's our sense of touch ... is also sensitive to low-frequency stimulation, low-frequency sound."

So that feeling you get at a concert when you're next to a speaker and you can feel it shaking in your chest is the tactile stimulation of sound when it's loud.

"And that's feeding into our motor system in the brain, the movement control system in our brain," Cameron said. "So it's adding a little bit of gain. It's giving a little more energy ... from that stimulation through those systems."

Some people hear music and can't help but sway or bop along, whether there are low, silent bass frequencies or not. So why do humans dance? Cameron says it's hard to test this, but there has been some work on why we may have evolved this way.

"We know that moving together in synchrony when we're making music together and dancing together leads to social bonding. We feel better about the people we're with. We feel more connected with them," he said. "So you can imagine this has potential advantages for groups throughout the long history of our species."

We also see the use of music and movement for things like regulating emotions, Cameron said, especially when it comes to taking care of babies.

"We try to soothe them. We sing to them, and we rock them along. So this idea of moving and singing and modulating arousal is also a functional thing to do," he said.


Evolution aside, Cameron finds value in knowing his study has  uncovered just one of the ingredients for what makes us want to dance a little bit more.


Mia Venkat

Christopher Intagliata

A recent study in the journal Current Biology found that people danced 12% more when very low frequency bass was played.


Listen to the Story

Crowd dances in colorful smoke-filled room

Flashpop/Getty Images

LIVELab

What makes us dance? It really is all about that bass

As frequently as music fans tend to point to the early 2000s as the dawn of our digital enlightenment, consider the ways those first few years online now feel like the dark ages. Bound by terrestrial radio formats, genres still mostly dared not mix on air — and when they did, a song that perfectly blended hip-hop and R&B might face waves of resistance outside of "rhythmic" radio, while clumsy rap-rock sailed through to pop dominance. Entertainment companies launched

 against individuals who downloaded music — including, memorably, 

 — and spent the next decade-plus trying to catch up to the internet's potential. Independent labels flourished where they could, but lacked the infrastructure to support musicians at even a fraction of the level of the majors, which meant curious listeners were left to scour record stores and mail-order catalogs, and sometimes you wound up hating that album you'd purchased on faith from your favorite indie. Hip-hop had completed its ascent to the most influential youth culture around the globe, and yet Black artists were paradoxically expected by the industry to perform within strict expectations of floss and gloss.

It arguably took until the mid- and late 2000s, the golden age of music blogging, before the cracks in the dam could be seen with the naked eye. MP3 blogs complemented what curious listeners were already gleaning from Limewire's mishmash of poorly labeled contraband; by their powers combined, all sorts of music that had once required tiresome detective work to discover began landing on our eMac screens, as if by magic. The specter of poptimism was on the horizon, a critically important moment that challenged the entrenched belief — most often proffered by the straight white men who then dominated music writing — that records created by multiple songwriters and producers were illegitimate next to the holy solo genius suffering monastically on the mount. (The worst side effect of that shift, a defanged skepticism of the corporate stewardship behind major-label artists, has unfortunately survived.) It was a weird time, full of persistent assumptions about race and gender and capital, and yet inching every day toward the dissolution of genre as we knew it.

In 2007, Santi White had just moved from her hometown of Philadelphia to New York City, then deep in the blogosphere-and-grimy-club era currently being retroactively christened as "indie sleaze," and had already witnessed years of music industry churn from the inside. After beginning her career as a major-label A&R, she'd written and produced the slept-on 2001 album 

 for Philly singer Res, then grabbed the mic herself as the vocalist for the post-punk band Stiffed, whose small catalog was produced by Bad Brains bassist Darryl Jennifer. But when she finally emerged as 

," the creative identity she'd arrived at couldn't have felt better aligned with the cultural shift in progress.

Santigold's 2008 eponymous album showcased just what she could do with the chops and acerbic intellect she'd honed on her long road to a solo debut. Versatile and deeply original, it landed her in critical conversation alongside musicians like TV on the Radio, M.I.A. and MGMT — artists whose disparate influences tilted their poppy songs askew, and whose tenure in Brooklyn embodied and informed the specific pulse of NYC at the time. Her live performances, flanked by two militant-looking women doing rigid, unconventional choreography in matching sunglasses, felt like a critique of the industry's tendency to crowd Black women into a mold of athletic femininity, perfected down to the backup dancer.

Moreover, she represented the type of iconoclast that pop radio was just beginning to show interest in. That same year, New York's Hot 97 began heavily rotating her longtime collaborator Ricky Blaze, who had accurately labeled his hi-NRG single "

" as "trancehall." Soon after, Kanye West flipped a sample of Santigold's own dub-reggae song "Shove It" into the Jay-Z juggernaut "

." It may seem unremarkable now, but back then any instance of established, mainstream artists reaching into the underground for inspiration seemed earth-shaking. It would still be another year, after all, before the blogs 

 at the sight of Beyoncé attending a Grizzly Bear concert.

, Santigold's position as a cultural bellwether has receded. 

 of that album pondered whether listeners, after a few years of accelerating exposure to an ever-wider range of sounds, had "simply caught up" with White. But importantly, the artist has also shown a consistent disinterest in squeezing her output into trends, particularly as the boundaries of the social algorithm have constrained record label appetites once again. She's always shown a commitment to making her ideas whole, and despite having been involved with Atlantic Records in one way or another since her debut, she's mostly been able to sidestep the demands of a fickle and often taste-poor industry. When she's had a rare misstep — her 2016 album 

, a conscious send-up of that side of the business, didn't quite match the musicianship of her other work — she's returned in fighting form, manifesting the pretty brilliant 2018 dancehall mixtape 

, as though she were relieved to get back to doing what she wanted.

, Santigold's fourth album and first in six years, arrived this September, the now 46-year-old artist was juggling a few new jobs: most notably as her own label executive, on her imprint Little Jerk Records, and as a 

, that most contemporary of side-hustles. (Her thoughtful show, 

, features conversations with fellow artists about craft, including a 

 with Questlove, Tunde Adibimpe and Angela Yee about what constitutes "Black music" and who gets to decide.) White's growing slate of extracurriculars, which also includes skincare products and a tea company, nods to a sobering truth of the moment: that more musicians are seeing music corporations as extractive and moving away from them, and that, in the streaming era, most can't support themselves on music and touring alone. Indeed,

 Shamira Ibrahim at Okayplayer, "I f****** hate the music industry. I think it's the worst business in the world, and I don't want to be in it anymore. I'm not saying that I will stop making music because I love making music and I'll always make music. But this career is wack, honestly."

represents a high point for White's musicality, the clearest articulation of her vision in years. Joining and transcending the annals of albums written in pandemic lockdown (in her case, while parenting three young children), it shoulders big ideas of isolation, alienation and determination, both as they relate to her own process and to more global struggles for justice. The title, according to a press release, is a nod to Negro spirituals, "songs that served the purpose of getting Black people through the un-get-throughable ... music whose sound and physical performance allow its participants to feel transcendental freedom in the moment." It's a compact, considered suite of songs that juxtapose her characteristic resoluteness with the sorrow and uncertainty of disconnection, expressed through minimal and direct means that pare her sound to its bare heart.

," an incongruously honeyed dancehall lullaby in which White lilts about having "a hole in my head," perhaps an artistic block in the face of the days bleeding into one another, and transitions into the yearning synth track "

," a narration of the internal critic and external forces that conspire to pick the self apart. "All day I fight what I can't see, my nothing," she falsettos, over a beat that sounds like a ticking clock. "On the inside I got to beat my nothing ... Won't you say I mean something?" This early head-on confrontation with depression sets a resonant tone for the rest of the album, like White is giving us permission to get vulnerable alongside her.

As quickly as she's let us in, she reminds us of the pioneer she's been and continues to be on the sproingy, exuberant "

," a quintessential Santigold bad-bitch number that showcases her side-angled approach to songwriting, aimed at the anthemic but swerving around easy melodies. She raps melodically about her artistic largesse before breaking into a sly, shady chorus: "Hey pretty / Aw, you really want my thunder / I guard the gates here / Guard the secrets while you wonder." It's the kind of song you blast in the mirror before going out to face your demons, and maybe that's what she's doing here. In the acknowledgment that she's still as artistically abundant as ever, she locates a kind of power more durable than youth-culture cachet, that has allowed her to reach a new apex of self-assuredness.

With her own position secure, she can bring us along as the setting grows darker, drawing on strength in numbers. The piano-tethered dirge "

 encapsulates the devastation of watching videos of cops killing unarmed Black people and reframes it as a necessary warning of protest, turning sorrow into strength ("Officer / I'm taking the fall / You woke him up fool / Beast is coming for y'all"). "

," too, is a call to action, on which she chants "There's power in our struggle" over a skulking beat courtesy of Afrobeats scion PJ2, as well as her prior collaborators Dre Skull and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs' Nick Zinner. On the immense bass track "

," which tags in long-missed U.K. producer SBTRKT, she sounds confident and resolute in her work, as though she's reached a moment of unforeseen clarity. Her posture calls to mind the mold of David Byrne (another past collaborator), the kind of artist who sticks to their vision despite whatever's de rigeur, and in the process has founded their own dominion. It's an approach that engenders longevity, if not lucre, and shows how she's been able to stay culturally important, urgent even.

On Sept. 26, a little over two weeks after 

' release, White announced she was canceling a planned North American tour for the album, set to begin in early October and wrap just before Thanksgiving. 

 to fans, she expressed heartbreak and disappointment, but was unequivocal that she felt the hurdles in front of her — spiking inflation, a market flooded by touring musicians trying to make up for lost time, the logistics of booking venues and hotels while mitigating COVID exposure and the risk of cancellations due to illness — amounted to doomed odds for the moment. "I have tried and tried, looked at what it would take from every angle, and I simply don't have it," she wrote.

Near the end of the note, she emphasized that the choice was a matter of prioritizing her physical and mental health, and reminded herself aloud that 

 is an album about honoring one's own boundaries. "It feels like I've been hanging on, trying to make it to the ever-distant finish line, but my vehicle's been falling apart the whole time ... I will not continue to sacrifice myself for an industry that has become unsustainable for, and uninterested in the welfare of the artists it is built upon." In the arts, longevity tends to be equated with consistency, the business rewarding those who never stop grinding, never leave our feeds for more than a moment. But an undervalued part of survival is knowing when to fall back — when to sacrifice short-term gains to keep from being eaten alive.

In 2022, the machinery of the American mainstream has found it can no longer ignore fans' interest in the musicians and genres and cultures and countries it previously marginalized, from Bad Bunny to Burna Boy. In that context, Santigold — whose entire career has been defined by a singular ability to coax her influences into cohesion — sounds sharper than ever in her current form, her art distilled to its purest intent. 

is a document of a focused musician growing into her next phase, defying the notion that artists are diminished or become less political as they grow older, meeting the moment like a leader while also reminding the world that she has 

," which echoes like dancehall for the spirit world, she intones cheekily, "I've already gone there / Now let the crowd say amen." Her point is made: No one makes music like her, and we'd do well not to forget it.

Julianne Escobedo Shepherd is a journalist and critic at work on her first book, about growing up in Wyoming and the myth of the American West.

Julianne Escobedo Shepherd

On the startlingly direct Spirituals, and in headline-grabbing rebukes of music's trickle-down economy, Santi White is what she's always been: a forward-thinking alternative to pop's here and now.


Woman with light eyes glares into distance

Frank Ockenfels/Courtesy of the artist

Santigold - L.E.S Artistes (Official Music Video)

Santigold - High Priestess (Official Video)

Santigold - Ain't Ready (Official Video)

There's still no one like Santigold

Beyoncé is the top artist nominated in the 65th annual Grammy Awards, set for Feb. 5 at the Crypto.com center in Los Angeles. The full list of nominees is on 

She is now tied with her husband Jay-Z for the most Grammy nominations by any musician. If she wins three more awards, she will match 

Beyoncé's nine nominations were scattered across several different categories. One is for "Be Alive," from the film 

, in the Best Song Written For Visual Media category, and the rest are for tracks from 

, which is up for album of the year. "Break My Soul" is a nominee for Song of the Year, Record of the Year and Best Dance/ Electronic Recording; "Virgo's Groove" is up for Best R&B Performance; and "Plastic Off the Sofa" is up for Best Traditional R&B Performance.

, Mary J. Blige, Future, DJ Khaled and the producer and songwriter The-Dream, each with six Grammy nominations.

The Best New Artist category has entries from a mix of genres: 22-year-old 

, who formerly went by the name Priscilla Renae.


The 2023 Grammys will feature several new awards categories, including Best Spoken Word Poetry Album and Best Score Soundtrack for Video Games.


Mandalit del Barco

This year's nominations are in and there are few surprises.


Mason Poole/A.M.P.A.S.

Beyoncé leads nominations for the 2023 Grammy Awards

It’s Cuffing Season this week on The Message. Tune in to hear some of Sanni’s favorite love songs and more live on The Message from 10 AM to 1 PM Monday through Thursday!

All of the tracks added to rotation on Carbon Sound the week of November 14, 2022.


New Music on Carbon Sound - Week of November 14, 2022

Omar Apollo made his case as a voice of pop’s future at Palace Theatre Tuesday with a set showing off his latest album.

The 25-year-old alternative R&B singer-songwriter from Hobart, Ind., has enjoyed the kind of year amateur musicians across the Midwest can only dream of. After years of uploading music onto the internet, his long-awaited debut studio LP, 

, has hit big. The album earned a No. 1 spot on the 

, and a headlining spot in the 2,500-capacity Palace Theatre.

Opener Ravyn Lenae, an up-and-coming alt-R&B star from Chicago, also had a marquee year. Featuring collaborations with KAYTRANADA and Steve Lacy, her debut studio LP, 

, caught the music world’s attention. It earned a 

 accolade from Pitchfork, and she has snagged deserved cosigns from breakout stars SZA and Noname. 

Sure enough, Lenae’s performance almost threatened to upstage Apollo. Prancing onto the stage in knee-high black boots and a bright-pink dress, Lenae’s outfit laid down a vibrant tone for the night. Her three-piece backup band -- consisting of an electric guitarist, a drummer, and a keyboardist – at times exceeded the sound found on 

Much like her clearest inspiration, Aaliyah, Lenae’s vocals went toe-to-toe with the ambitious instrumentals that band put forth, usually with a high success rate. Exemplary restraint, quirky high notes and well-placed giggles helped the singer work her way through the kind of outstanding opening performance that audiences rarely receive.

The live band and oddball vocals warrant comparisons to another R&B great, Erykah Badu. Much like Badu, Lenae’s lyrics flex a poise beyond her years and her onstage presence expressed an enviably leveled graciousness.

“St Paul, you’ve been beautiful tonight. You’ve been open, you’ve been warm,” Lenae thanked the crowd at one point.

 such an achievement, Lenae closed out with “Sticky,” the 2018 single that made her name. After skipping offstage, her band stayed on for a minute for an uproarious finale, full of head-banging.

After a break filled with Nicki Minaj on the speakers, smoke machines in full effect, and security guards distributing water bottles, Apollo arrived onstage.

With one drummer in shades, two guitarists, and gigantic LED lighting panels that often displayed his live image, Apollo sang, strutted, and smirked across the stage like he owned it. Well, in those moments, he totally did.

Apollo danced with heaping amounts of boyish charm, reminiscent of a 

. At times he grabbed his belt and moved his hips to the beat, his tongue ever so slightly out, infusing the smooth ’90s R&B-inspired moves with a Latin influence.

In multiple interviews, Apollo has referenced Prince as an influence and so, inevitably, he addressed that elephant in the room.

“We’re in Minneapolis,” Apollo stated, before correcting himself, “No we’re in St. Paul, which is close to Minneapolis.”

“Prince is from here,” he said with a smile, in an effort to prove he actually did know a thing or two about his audience’s home that night.

At other times, Apollo leaned away from the funk influences and into traditional Mexican rock.

“Is there a lot of Mexicans in St. Paul?” Apollo asked about six songs into the show before grabbing an acoustic guitar and diving into a trio of Spanish-language songs. Born to immigrant parents from Guadalajara, Apollo seems intent on re-introducing his non-Mexican fans to their southern neighbors while engaging those who already get it. Two fans in the balcony waved a Mexican flag while Apollo teased the audience members who didn’t know his Spanish lyrics.

In addition to his Mexican identity, Apollo also imbues his performances with his queer identity. 

’s cover, featuring Apollo shirtless and solemn in the shadows, closely resembles the artwork for 

 by indie rock queer icon Perfume Genius. Like Perfume Genius, Apollo also sings lyrics full of queer heartbreak and envy. Comedian Jaboukie Young-White frequently jokes that yearning is the gayest emotion. It’s telling that both artists have ballads on White’s popular Spotify playlist titled, “

Apollo balanced his more upbeat moments with these tales of queer heartbreak on Tuesday night. One particularly vulnerable moment arrived during his performance of “Mr. Neighbor.” In the song, Apollo pleaded to the crowd, “I, I, I, I don't want to be alone,” before finishing it out with a primal, “F**k me, oh yeah, yeah-yeah / Oh yeah, yeah-yeah.”

The St. Paul show brought together two talented artists pushing the boundaries of R&B.


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