Koffee’s debut album, Gifted, often sounds like a victory lap. And to a degree, that seems justified. Born Mikayla Simpson in Spanish Town, Jamaica, Koffee first made her mark as a teen with some blistering freestyles on a BBC Radio stream. Her subsequent 2019 EP, Rapture, adapted ragga and dancehall to a decidedly 21st-century hip-hop approach, vividly accompanying the singer’s propulsive, uncontainable wordplay with a mix of traditional reggae instrumentation and slick beats. The release made Simpson the youngest person and first woman to win the Grammy for Best Reggae Album.
Across the 10 songs on Gifted, Koffee alternates between earnestly expressing her gratitude to be alive, detailing her childhood in Jamaica and the violence plaguing the country, and confidently resting on her laurels. Koffee is charming and winningly wholesome in the first mode, but her attempts to meld tributes to family and life’s simplicities with designer name drops and empty boasts can feel awkward and misplaced.
There are enough displays of Koffee’s virtuosic dexterity—or “aqueduct flow,” as she calls it on “West Indies”—here to make the aptly titled Gifted a satisfying listen. “I don’t wanna rush, I’m sorry,” she confesses on “Run Away.” And, indeed, the album’s title track finds her singing beautifully and unhurriedly, her voice quaking over the sampled chatter of children’s voices and light, shuffling percussion. At the end of “Lonely”—the album’s most classicist reggae number, replete with staccato piano, noodling guitars, and live drums—Koffee pulls away, letting her breathless, rhythmically impeccable rapping break free and dominate for a stretch.
But tracks like “West Indies” and the dancehall-flavored “Pull Up” lack that same urgency, and attributions of Koffee’s success to God and her mother don’t jibe with her fixation on material brands like Prada, Fenty, and Balenciaga. The result is a POV that feels too wishy-washy, especially since the presentation is so diffuse as to barely register.
Koffee’s performances on “Where I’m From” and “Defend” carry the instinctual, off-the-cuff ferocity that gained her recognition earlier in her career. The former features three commanding verses structured around the soft chanting of a group of back-up singers, undergirded by muted guitar strums and finger snaps, while “Lockdown” is a timely ditty whose title doubles as a reference to Covid protocols and a metaphor for monogamy. They’re the finest moments on an album that doesn’t always play to its young creator’s strengths.
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