Each song has a kind of aqueous fragility like they might evaporate at room temperature. Venereal hooks like “ Does your tongue still remember the taste of my lips? ” bob and float around your mind like a rubber duck. He can sing too: his lyrics are melancholic and psychosexual, and he delivers them in slurred, pained tones.
At heart, Joji is very much a 21st century bedroom producer, making moody and intoxicated lo-fi beats with a gritty and enchanting atmosphere. While his music on Ballads 1 is inherently beautiful, it isn’t exactly the most accessible sound in the world. To put that into perspective, that is just ten million less than “Yikes”, the lead single from Kanye West’s recent eighth album, ye.
1 on Billboard ’s Top R&B/Hip-Hop Albums chart), and the first single, “Slow Dancing in the Dark”, scooped 91 million streams and counting on Spotify. His debut album, Ballads 1, rocked in at number 3 on the Billboard chart ( No. Joji is a brand new artist of seismic popularity. Maybe I don’t go to enough shows, maybe it’s because everyone wears anything and listens to everything nowadays, or maybe it’s down to the far-reaching appeal of the man onstage, who, in this moment at least, goes by the name of Joji. I don’t recall seeing an audience this diverse and this animated at many London shows. Except the checked shirt bearded blokes with badges on their beanies, they are just swaying, but I can tell from their contrived faces that somewhere inside they are hysterical. They queued around the block for this show, as early as three hours before doors, and now they are inside and the show is starting and we are all screaming. Lastly, there’s a shrewdness of checked shirt bearded blokes with badges on their beanies, a romp of white girls with braids and words like “LOVE” written on their t-shirts, and one woman, standing alone, dressed head to toe in Christmas lights. What do you call a group of blue rinsed emos draped in hanging chains? A murder? There’s a murder of them, as well as some goths in black cut off denim. There’s a gaggle of glittery top girls too, mixed into a clowder of Kappa tracksuit boys with shotter bags round their torsos. A school of teens in dungarees and vintage Umbro harp impatiently. I am here in this 1,625 capacity London venue-Heaven, they call it.
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