Listening to Amara Fe’s new album, “SHIFT,” is a bit like finding a perfectly preserved suit of medieval armor that’s been custom-tailored by a high-fashion house. It is formidable, gleaming, and entirely without apology. Across the sprawling landscape of its 24 tracks, Fe builds a monument to self-belief so solid it could probably withstand a siege. There is no room for doubt in this kingdom; every moat has been filled, every wall has been fortified with pure, unadulterated confidence.
Dip into the collection, and you find a relentless current of success. In “Again,” winning is repeated with the percussive insistence of a jackhammer, acknowledging the fake smiles of haters but treating them as little more than background noise. It brought to my mind, strangely, the sound of a cash-counting machine in an old film—a whirring, hypnotic rhythm of accumulation that has no time for emotion. Elsewhere, “Lets Fly” serves as a coronation ceremony saturated with the imagery of power—crowns, cash, thrones—less a song and more a public declaration of a dynasty in progress.
This is an album constructed from declarative statements. “Unstoppable” casts Fe as a force of nature, an “empire” breaking free of “chains.” Yet, the power here isn’t just brute force. “The Potion” reveals the source code: an inimitable “Queen energy,” a specific formula that makes her float. It’s not a boast shouted from the rooftops but a fact stated with the quiet certainty of a scientist explaining a law of physics. It’s a confidence that reminds me of the unteachable posture a trained opera singer holds even when they’re just ordering a coffee—it’s baked into their very marrow.
Even when the focus pivots to romance, the terms are set with the precision of a corporate takeover. On “Call Me Out,” Fe demands clarity from a “shady” partner, refusing to be an unlisted asset on his personal stock market. In “Try Me,” she is the “forbidden fruit,” not as a coy temptress, but as a prize that requires a significant, pre-approved investment. The battlefield changes from the charts to the heart, but the strategy remains the same: know your worth, state your terms, and accept no counteroffers. The air of invincibility is so thick that when we encounter the obsessive in “Eye On Me,” who knows her Starbucks order, the dismissal is chillingly nonchalant.
The album’s grand, unifying statement might well be “Shine On Me,” where the artist embraces the spotlight she has meticulously built for herself. The entire project feels like a fortress of self-valuation, meticulously crafted and impenetrable. One leaves not necessarily feeling empowered, but certainly aware of what power sounds like. After the final note fades, what remains is the echo of a singular, unwavering will. Do you walk away inspired by its glare, or simply readjusting your eyes to the quiet of your own world?
