When Queens-born Yaya Bey released her third album, do it afraid, in 2025, she yearned to move past the topic of grief after feeling her work was increasingly viewed through the narrow lens of loss. That said, there was plenty to mourn, from the death of her father, the acclaimed Juice Crew MC, Grand Daddy I.U. as well as a creeping sense that a particular Black American experience, the one she grew up in, was disappearing. The week the album dropped, despite the critical acclaim, she found herself on the road in a Miami hotel room, crying uncontrollably. She wasn’t just tired, but also coming to the realization “there was no place for that grief to exist that would not become a spectacle. I had been holding it in. Maybe, to protect myself. Maybe to prove the onlookers wrong. Whatever the case, it was spilling over now.”
What Bey was pondering was “what part of that ache is specifically Black?” and clarity followed. Yaya quickly returned to the studio after last summer and crafted a new body of work, an album that works as an accompanying piece to do it afraid, called Fidelity, the result of that breaking point. It is a record born from a summer of reflection on what it means to be a Black artist when your grief becomes a commodity, another sob story for onlookers to feast upon. Fidelity is a bold step forward, and in this new act, Bey moves past the surface-level labels to examine what she calls the "Three Deaths": the personal, the communal, and the loss of innocence.
The album confronts Personal Death through the passing of her father in 2022. Bey questions why the life expectancy of Black musicians is so short as we continue to lose consequential artists, only to receive their flowers too late, too far after the fact. "Why are we more interesting as ghosts?" she asks, looking at the mid-career mark where so many artists are left to die by a system that prioritizes the "shiny and new."
On Fidelity, the social and the personal are inseparable. Bey explores the Death of Home and community, charting the displacement of native New Yorkers and the fracture of the Black diaspora. She critiques the rise of Black capitalism, or the "individualism and tribalism" that have replaced community solidarity. From the gentrification of her native Queens or Brooklyn’s Bed-Stuy to the "diaspora wars" online, Bey navigates the ways we’ve been pulled apart, weaponizing our differences instead of addressing the collective ache of being "made new" in a world that demands our constant adaptation.
Finally, the record addresses the Death of Innocence—the crash back to reality for a generation raised on the empty promises of the 90s and Y2K eras. Bey reflects on the transition from the "Golden Era" of Black media to a landscape of global pandemics, state violence, and an industry that exploits and disposes of Black artists that were once held in high esteem.
The songs showcase Bey’s range as a performer from lead-off single “Blue” which opens like a breath of fresh air to the project. Yaya says: “Blue” is the first song I wrote for the album. I wrote it when I was rock bottom coming off the heels of do it afraid. When I realized I had to make a big shift mentally and emotionally or I was gonna drown. The production is really reminiscent of early 2000's Pop/R&B like something red-haired Kelly Rowland would sing over on one of her solo projects. The nostalgia drew me to it. Almost like I'm coaching my younger self through something. Which I guess ultimately I am.”
Equally bright and effusive, “Forty Days” glimmers with clarity, a song with a heavy theme about a phase transfer that is unexpectedly buoyed with a Disco-Funk confidence. “There’s a belief that after a loved one dies you give them 40 days to pass over into the ancestral realm and that got me thinking about what is the time frame for the grieving to transition into a new life that is absent of the lost one’s physical presence. How do both acclimate to new conditions of the relationship?”
Fellow Queens native NESTA drops in for “Egyptian Musk” , a surprise chance moment turning into a key moment in the album. “I ran into NESTA at an event the night before and invited him to a session. We had this really dreamy reggae track that sounds like something old with a fresh spin. I named it Egyptian Musk ‘cause it reminds me of the scent. Rich, sweet and comforting.”
The core of the album is indeed found in its title. For Bey, Fidelity is the ultimate Black skill. It is the ability to fall down and get back up—to be "religiously joyful" even while the world is on fire. It is a grand pivot away from a yearning for mainstream accessibility, and toward a radical faithfulness to self and community. Fidelity is not just a foil to do it afraid; it’s a reclamation. As she puts it, the veil is lifting and the work is being done, and she’s still here. Cheers to hers, and our fidelity.
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