At the top of the bathroom isolated from the blaring pulse of Afrobeats and dancehall, women in black miniskirts and tight dresses dried their arms and legs. We had endured a downpour to get into New York City’s Musica nightclub for Rema’s He is listening party, in honor of the second album of the same name that he released last month and was received with praise by critics. He had first baptized the album with romp in London, wild fragments of which were circulating the internet. Now he brought the noise to the States.
Although Rema has long called his style of Afrobeats ‘Afro-rave’, there was little rave-ready about it until recently. He isa shockingly intense evolution of the Nigerian party music that defined the early 2010s in the diaspora. The event required an all-black dress code, in keeping with both the dark energy of the album and, incidentally, the stormy night. All the girls lining up for the bathroom looked impeccable, even with rain-washed hair and damp skin.
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Musica’s main floor is already packed with people before Rema arrives, with local yet global DJs Mohogany, Brandon Blue and mOma getting the crowd ready. In addition to professional dancers pumping up the crowd on stage, mOma, who co-hosts the popular global traveling day party Everyday People, spins a set that includes a reworking of the soca house classic “Work” (“What are you waiting for? Get back at it! Just a little more!” is the popular refrain sung by Denise Belfon) and Tyler ICU’s amapiano hit “Mnike” from last year. It also features “Bicycle,” by recently released dancehall star Vybz Kartel, and, as has become customary at large gatherings, Kendrick Lamar’s “Not Like Us.” You can hear fists and palms clashing from all sides as Kendrick screams, “WOP WOP WOP WOP WOP, Dot, fuck ‘em up!”
Almost without ceremony, Rema emerges from doors tucked far back and in a corner of the stage, moving through a crowd of friends, partners, and security to a section on the other side of the platform, through the mass of VIPs already lingering behind the DJ booth. Though it was a muggy 70 degrees outside and much hotter in the packed venue, Rema wears a knitted black beanie and a heavy leather jacket with diamond chains glinting beneath it. His eyes wary behind thick black sunglasses, he smokes what appears to be a cigarette, a new calling card for his He is era. Professional and iPhone photographers compete for shots of Rema as he climbs onto a couch against a wall, rubbing shoulders with Nigerian singer Joeboy, his popular producer London (Rema and Selena Gomez’s “Calm Down,” Ayra Starr’s “Bloody Samaritan,” Tiwa Savage’s “Koroba”), Ghanaian singer King Promise and finally New York City’s own Ferg. Shaboozey and Emily Ratajkowski are somewhere in the fray.
Rema doesn’t take the stage until he’s enjoyed his cigarette more, given his crew time to rehydrate with water and cocktails, and let the exclusive group of VIP spectators enjoy their presence. As his group makes its way to the DJ, a woman next to me runs away from a man who tries to get embarrassingly close to her so she can get a better look at Rema. Opera music crescendos as he and his friends take their places in front of the audience under green strobes, still smoking. Then there’s the sound of breaking glass. “If I say one more, what then? You say one more?” he says, testing the crowd with his signature catchphrase. “One more?”
“Banger!” we scream dizzily.
“I don’t want to take up too much of your time, I just want to thank you for coming tonight,” he says with a shy, bright white grin. “I know it’s raining — you made it, you made it.” More shouting follows before he makes a plea. “I don’t want anything but your energy,” he says, repeating the request four times, rapid fire. And true to his word, “March Am,” the frantic first track on He isfalls without much ado. Rema swings and bounces as if he is charging, and holds his ear to beckon us to sing along.
The DJ plays the album with few pauses—the strobes glow bright red for the electric percussion that opens “Azaman.” They turn bright white, then cobalt blue for “HEHEHE,” on which Rema jumps with so much energy he could launch himself off the ceiling. He circles his hands to sketch an imaginary giant butt as the line “Ikebe super, oya, shake am” from “Villian” comes on. He struts his elbows up and out on “Benin Boys,” rapping Shallipoppi’s verse with even more fervor than his own lyrics. He holds a microphone in his hand and impressively manages to be louder than his voice on the tracks when he decides to be. London, also in a leather jacket, two-steps with an ornate pink handheld electric fan cooling his face.
There are brief moments when the spotlight is on his special guests, such as when Ferg makes his important entry into the modern New York rap pantheon on “Plain Jane.” “Where my Africans at?” says Ferg, who was born and raised in Harlem to Trini parents. “Let’s do some classic shit.” It’s a welcome addition, but it doesn’t get the crowd going quite like Wande Coal’s Afrobeats classic “Iskaba,” parts of which he sings with deft trills. Shaboozey, who is Nigerian-American, also makes his way to the front of the stage, not to perform (this isn’t really the venue for “A Bar Song,” and he looks like he didn’t get the blackout memo in his army green jacket and white tank top) but to throw his arm around Rema’s neck and celebrate the title track with him.
The He is The song that really gets things going is “Ozeba,” aptly named after a Nollywood horror that Rema used to fear when he was younger. He’s puffing on his cigarette as the signal comes on, while London gets a bottle of Don Julio 1942 dropped squarely on his head. I see a couple in their own world, pogoing with big smiles, nose to nose. There’s bits of jumping and light moshing in the crowd, though many have prioritized capturing Rema on their phones. While Rema asked for energy, and it’s certainly there, the real party is on stage. He starts off counting to four before the incessant hook drops and the crowd’s voices rise: “OZEBA, OZEBA, OZEBA, OZEBA!” He and his friends leap from right to left in unison, a wave of joy, lightheartedness, and accomplishment. They run it back two more times, timelessly, before Rema finally disappears into the abyss of bodies behind the DJ booth. But before he leaves, he has one more question. “Tell everyone you know about Rema’s music,” he says. “I need you as much as you need me.”
Launch Gallery: Scenes from Rema’s Afro-Rave in New York
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