Karen Nyame KG says shaking your bum is political

The London producer built her name on heavy club instrumentals, but on her new EP, Epiphany, she's finally stepping up to the mic and proving that a sweaty dancefloor is the ultimate act of defiance.
Editorial portrait of Karen Nyame KG wearing a white embroidered jacket and making a hand gesture, lit by a dramatic blue spotlight.

We’re in the golden age of the producer-auteur, and Karen Nyame KG is comfortably leading the pack. We catch up with her during a rare, blistering London heatwave, and she’s fighting off a flu, hovering right around 80 percent recovery. But that doesn’t stop her from being an absolute joy the minute she hops on video call. “I’m a yapper,” she warns us early on. “Just give me your microphone and I’ll talk for ages”. Just the day prior, she was laying out in a park with friends, blasting 80s synthwave so relaxing that people were literally falling asleep on the grass. It’s a fitting scene for an artist who built her name speeding up the club, but who cherishes her downtime to combat ear fatigue and bring her nervous system back down.

Karen Nyame KG seated in a dark, moody environment with dramatic blue studio lighting.
Photography by Condry Calvin Mlilo
Close-up editorial portrait of producer Karen Nyame KG wearing sunglasses in moody blue lighting.

Her path into production is beautifully unconventional. As a kid, she was obsessed with gaming—the Sega Mega Drive, the Game Boy, and the lineage of Playstation consoles. And while society has an expectation of what “Black baby girls” should be engrossed in, she notes, “I wasn’t playing with Barbies or anything”. Instead, she’d boot up Tekken and pick a fighter, but she was in no rush to throw the first punch. She liked to loiter on the character selection screen just to hear the background music. “I was just married to whatever is being built and what’s happening musically,” she says. “I would even just leave the page on a certain character, because I love the music”. To this day, getting a track on a Tekken or Grand Theft Auto game remains top-tier bucket list material for her. 

That same kid grew up to be one of the very few Black West African women navigating the technical side of the UK electronic scene. Her early anonymity wasn’t an artistic alter-ego phase, and if she’d had it her way, she wouldn’t have been hidden at all. But operating independently in a male-dominated industry meant the doors that did open often came with conditions attached. She refused to cater to the male gaze or play the industry’s narrow game of what was deemed marketable. So, she walked away. Between 2013 and 2017, she stopped producing entirely. “I won’t even frame it as a break,” she says. “I quit. I was done. Holy hell, I was done”.

British-Ghanaian DJ and producer Karen Nyame KG in a cream embroidered jacket, photographed for her EP Epiphany

The universe, naturally, had other plans. In 2017, independent UK label Goon Club Allstars slid into her DMs wanting to reissue her early tracks. She saw it as divinely orchestrated, but knew if she was returning, she had to do it differently. She decided to step into the public-facing role of a DJ—a craft she’d previously been slightly snobby about. “I produce,” she remembers thinking. “Why do I need to do anything else?”. Two friends taught her the ropes, and she figured out the rest in real-time, surviving the trauma of public trial and  error. “They never forget,” she jokes about the internet’s memory for a beginner’s mixes. “They are unforgivable”. 

“For years, I only dropped EPs. This is a reckoning. Before I head into album mode, this is the turning point.”

Karen Nyame KG

Now, we’re entering what she calls her “Dominion” chapter, perfectly encapsulated by her unapologetically sensual new EP, Epiphany. It marks a major metamorphosis, or a “new level of artistic audacity,” before she heads into full album mode. For years, she built her foundation on instrumentals, partly because she was working with demo software she couldn’t afford to license. Epiphany ushers in a much softer, sweatier groove: she’s finally “opening up her throat chakra,” and letting her voice take center stage on tracks like “In My Room” and “Allure”. Her signature “KG swing” is firmly intact, though. It’s the same rhythm and vibe she injects into her highly sought-after remixes for artists like Kelela, Hikaru Utada, and PinkPantheress, where she strictly avoids over-chopping or erasing the original vocal line. “I feel like certain voices and tones are instruments,” she notes.

What really makes KG’s orbit so magnetic is the sanctuary she creates for her listeners. Since launching Rhythm in the City in 2023, she’s turned the “grown and sexy” party-turned-label into a fully-realized playground where diversity is the baseline. You’ll find a Black woman commanding the room from the decks, and lineups consistently featuring 80 to 90 percent POC and LGBTQIA+ artists. “We live that,” she says plainly. And she doesn’t chase aimless follower counts anymore, she caters to the 300 to 400 diehards—her “Rhythm Nation”—who track her down whether she’s in London, Australia, or anywhere else on the globe. For her, finding that hyper-dedicated community waiting for her thousands of miles from home never stops being a trip. “It’s crazy for me to go to the other side of the universe,” she laughs. “It’s like, ‘yo sis, I saw your name! I had to come and support!'”

“If I say, come and rest, come and shake bum, come and see another person that looks like you in a type of setting, that, to me, is politics.”

Karen Nyame KG

To KG, throwing a heavy, unapologetic party is the ultimate political statement. Marginalized bodies have historically been “whipped, chained, abused, controlled, denied softness,” she points out, forced to operate in constant survival mode, bracing for impact the second they step outside. Her response is to curate heavy, sticky rooms designed purely for release. “If I say, come and rest, come and shake bum, come and see another person that looks like you in a type of setting, that, to me, is politics,” she explains. “Because I choose to center joy, movement, and desire… that is not separate from politics. That is politics. That, to me, is activism”. 

Fans regularly approach her after sets, completely overwhelmed, telling her they needed the space to purge. “It’s so powerful, it’s a healing,” she says. Consider it the best, sweatiest, copay-free therapy session in the city.

Epiphany is out now via Black Acre. Buy it on Bandcamp or stream it on Spotify, Apple Music, YouTube Music, Amazon Music, and TIDAL.

Read the full interview below:

You’ve called Epiphany your “Dominion” chapter, and it’s undeniably sensual. What are you leaving behind to get to this level of unapologetic energy? This project is a massive turning point. For years, I only dropped EPs, this is a reckoning. The epiphany is that I’ve reached a new level of artistic audacity. It’s a total metamorphosis and a level of mastery I’ve been building toward. Before I head into album mode—and I’ve never made an album before—this is the turning point.

Your early tracks were entirely instrumental, and you kept your identity completely hidden. What was the reality of the scene back then that made anonymity the safest bet? If it were up to me, I wouldn’t have been hidden at all. I was one of very few Black West African women trying to enter the technical side of electronic music. Women were expected to sing. I could count the female producers on one hand. I was working independently, dodging predatory men, and hitting walls regarding what society deemed “marketable” for a dark-skinned woman. I refused to cater to the male gaze. Staying hidden was just the reality of an industry that had no infrastructure to support what I was doing.

You were grinding on pirate radio back when there was zero money in it and no guarantee of a career. What kept you showing up to the booth?

Sheer, unspoken passion. I started hosting on Westside Radio because I love to talk—give me a live mic and I’ll yap for ages. With the underground stations, it was pure drive. I loved the power of standing alongside a sea of men in a male-dominated scene and holding my own. I was so married to getting my stuff out there that I never bothered thinking about the outcome. Looking back, this was part of my purpose.

You completely quit music for six years. What actually brought you back, and why did you decide to learn how to DJ in public, surviving the trauma of real-time trial and error?

I didn’t take a break, I quit. Holy hell, I was done. But Goon Club Allstars reached out on Twitter wanting to reissue my old work, which felt divinely orchestrated. I believe in trying new things to get new results, so I decided if I was returning, I had to change the playbook. I used to be a total snob about DJing—I produce, why do I need to do anything else?—but playing your own edits to a room is an unmatched feeling. Two of my Ghanaian friends taught me the basics in 2017, and even with the trial and error in public, I haven’t looked back since.

Your voice is ridiculous—we were literally floating when we listened to the EP. Why did it take so long to actually let yourself sing on your own tracks?

I’ve only recently gotten comfortable opening up my throat chakra and expressing what’s within. My formative years were straight beat-making, and keeping things instrumental was just practical since I was using demo software. That era refined my signature groove and taught me how to leave room for vocals. It’s a massive compliment now when people hear a track and say, yeah, that’s a KG record. I cringe hard at the early stuff—we’re our own worst critics—but you can hear the evolution in every track.

You’ve remixed everyone from Kelela to Hikaru Utada. How do you strike the balance between preserving their original magic and giving a track the signature KG treatment?

Certain voices and tones are instruments, so I try my best to make the vocal the centerpiece. I’ll do a few chops here and there, but I build the KG swing around it. I never want to erase the element people connect with. I want them to know it’s a new version of the original, but it’s KG’s version, too. A lot of house producers chop vocals into oblivion until the singer loses their place, which I refuse to do.

Remix culture is having a massive resurgence. With so much corporate red tape and AI lurking, where do you see the art of the rework heading?

We’re in a regenerative era. The archives are buzzing and people are bringing old material into the new sphere. It’s beautiful how a great remix can send people right back to the original. But between the copyright red tape and the monster that is AI, we need a middle ground. We still need to innovate. If the early innovators hadn’t made anything, we’d have nothing to sample today. If we stop making music, who is anyone going to sample in the next twenty years?

You stopped chasing external validation. What was the first thing you did differently?

I stopped caring about scaling up aggressively. Management teams usually push for hollow follower counts, but internet numbers don’t buy tickets. I pivoted to the 300 or 400 diehards in my “Rhythm Nation” who follow me everywhere. It’s wild to travel to the other side of the universe in Australia and have Ghanaian people find me and say, “Yo sis, I saw your name, I had to come support.” When you stop trying to make things bigger aggressively, they get bigger anyway.

Rhythm in the City evolved from a party into a label. Is that an extension of the music, or a totally different beast?

It’s the same core vision: championing unconventional African dance music. The label is a home for artists who are left of center, and since they play our events, we’re building a family. It’s a logistical nightmare doing it alone while building my own brand, but the community makes it worth it. And the diversity isn’t lip service—we live that. You’ll see a Black woman running the entire night from the decks, and our lineups are consistently 80 to 90 percent POC and LGBTQIA+ artists.

Electronic music owes its existence to Black and queer communities, yet visibility is still a massive fight. What’s changed since you started?

It’s progress and regression simultaneously. There are more initiatives now than ten years ago, when we were hidden under a veil, but today, representation is often just a performative box to check. I know emerging DJs who support massive acts, but aren’t put on the flyer. Visibility is currency. Keeping someone’s name small while they build your dance floor is systemic. It’s infuriating, but it just forces me to show up louder. I have the bruises, but we’re moving.

You skip explicit political slogans for heavy club tracks. Why is the club your primary method of activism?

Every artist has their ministry. Centering joy, movement, and desire is a radical political statement for marginalized people. I told a white friend that their antenna doesn’t have to go up the way mine does when I travel, wondering if I’ll face profiling or homophobia. So when I say, come and rest, come and shake bum, come and see someone who looks like you—that is politics. That is real healing.

You got into production by obsessing over video game menus. If you could go back and produce three gaming soundtracks, what are you picking?

I had every console—Sega Mega Drive, Wii, PlayStations, everything. First: Tekken. The house tracks were unbelievable, I would just leave the page on a character because I loved the music so much. Second: Grand Theft Auto. I’ve had a few sync deals fall through, so I’m hoping they circle back—that is bucket list material. Third: Cool Boarders on the PS1, my introduction to liquid drum and bass. Society expects Black baby girls to play with Barbies, but I was glued to a console.

What are you listening to when you’re completely off the clock and just living as Karen?

My palate is all over the place, which is the fun part. Lately, it’s synthwave and 80s pop—it’s kind of computer-gamish. But ear fatigue is real. Sometimes I need silence or low-intensity music to reset my nervous system. If it’s early, don’t give me the darkest afro-tech. Give me Sade. Let’s warm into the day.

You’re about to go on tour with stops in Belgium, Greece, and Croatia. European crowds definitely aren’t shy about letting you know exactly what they want on the dance floor, so how do you handle an audience that might not be instantly primed for your sets?

I’m selective about the rooms I play because I’m not compromising my tracklist—I stand ten toes down on that. I’d rather stay home than play a bad vibe. Touring Europe is a social experiment. When I played Horst Festival in Belgium, I had to follow a DJ playing dancehall, going from Wayne Wonder into deep South African house. It was a massive challenge to work them up to 120 BPM, but once they got there, they stayed. My agent and I are intentional, we don’t just take anything.

What are the absolute perfect conditions to listen to Epiphany front to back? Where are we, who are we with, and what are we doing? “In My Room” is peak-time intensity. “Stay” is the midpoint to catch your breath and debrief with friends. Then “Allure” pulls you back into that dark hotel-room vibe. We close on “Shuda Crz,” which is this midnight, full-moon type of music—the ultimate landing point for the end of a good night. I didn’t want an EP full of singles, I wanted a mood.

Written by: HQ

Photography: Condry Calvin Mlilo

Makeup: Grace McCartney

Styling: Rashida Taylor

Assistant Stylist: Kalila Lync

We’re in the golden age of the producer-auteur, and Karen Nyame KG is comfortably leading the pack. We catch up with her during a rare, blistering London heatwave, and she’s fighting off a flu, hovering right around 80 percent recovery. But that doesn’t stop her from being an absolute joy the minute she hops on video call. “I’m a yapper,” she warns us early on. “Just give me your microphone and I’ll talk for ages”. Just the day prior, she was laying out in a park with friends, blasting 80s synthwave so relaxing that people were literally falling asleep on the grass. It’s a fitting scene for an artist who built her name speeding up the club, but who cherishes her downtime to combat ear fatigue and bring her nervous system back down.

Karen Nyame KG seated in a dark, moody environment with dramatic blue studio lighting.
Photography by Condry Calvin Mlilo
Close-up editorial portrait of producer Karen Nyame KG wearing sunglasses in moody blue lighting.

Her path into production is beautifully unconventional. As a kid, she was obsessed with gaming—the Sega Mega Drive, the Game Boy, and the lineage of Playstation consoles. And while society has an expectation of what “Black baby girls” should be engrossed in, she notes, “I wasn’t playing with Barbies or anything”. Instead, she’d boot up Tekken and pick a fighter, but she was in no rush to throw the first punch. She liked to loiter on the character selection screen just to hear the background music. “I was just married to whatever is being built and what’s happening musically,” she says. “I would even just leave the page on a certain character, because I love the music”. To this day, getting a track on a Tekken or Grand Theft Auto game remains top-tier bucket list material for her. 

That same kid grew up to be one of the very few Black West African women navigating the technical side of the UK electronic scene. Her early anonymity wasn’t an artistic alter-ego phase, and if she’d had it her way, she wouldn’t have been hidden at all. But operating independently in a male-dominated industry meant the doors that did open often came with conditions attached. She refused to cater to the male gaze or play the industry’s narrow game of what was deemed marketable. So, she walked away. Between 2013 and 2017, she stopped producing entirely. “I won’t even frame it as a break,” she says. “I quit. I was done. Holy hell, I was done”.

British-Ghanaian DJ and producer Karen Nyame KG in a cream embroidered jacket, photographed for her EP Epiphany

The universe, naturally, had other plans. In 2017, independent UK label Goon Club Allstars slid into her DMs wanting to reissue her early tracks. She saw it as divinely orchestrated, but knew if she was returning, she had to do it differently. She decided to step into the public-facing role of a DJ—a craft she’d previously been slightly snobby about. “I produce,” she remembers thinking. “Why do I need to do anything else?”. Two friends taught her the ropes, and she figured out the rest in real-time, surviving the trauma of public trial and  error. “They never forget,” she jokes about the internet’s memory for a beginner’s mixes. “They are unforgivable”. 

“For years, I only dropped EPs. This is a reckoning. Before I head into album mode, this is the turning point.”

Karen Nyame KG

Now, we’re entering what she calls her “Dominion” chapter, perfectly encapsulated by her unapologetically sensual new EP, Epiphany. It marks a major metamorphosis, or a “new level of artistic audacity,” before she heads into full album mode. For years, she built her foundation on instrumentals, partly because she was working with demo software she couldn’t afford to license. Epiphany ushers in a much softer, sweatier groove: she’s finally “opening up her throat chakra,” and letting her voice take center stage on tracks like “In My Room” and “Allure”. Her signature “KG swing” is firmly intact, though. It’s the same rhythm and vibe she injects into her highly sought-after remixes for artists like Kelela, Hikaru Utada, and PinkPantheress, where she strictly avoids over-chopping or erasing the original vocal line. “I feel like certain voices and tones are instruments,” she notes.

What really makes KG’s orbit so magnetic is the sanctuary she creates for her listeners. Since launching Rhythm in the City in 2023, she’s turned the “grown and sexy” party-turned-label into a fully-realized playground where diversity is the baseline. You’ll find a Black woman commanding the room from the decks, and lineups consistently featuring 80 to 90 percent POC and LGBTQIA+ artists. “We live that,” she says plainly. And she doesn’t chase aimless follower counts anymore, she caters to the 300 to 400 diehards—her “Rhythm Nation”—who track her down whether she’s in London, Australia, or anywhere else on the globe. For her, finding that hyper-dedicated community waiting for her thousands of miles from home never stops being a trip. “It’s crazy for me to go to the other side of the universe,” she laughs. “It’s like, ‘yo sis, I saw your name! I had to come and support!'”

“If I say, come and rest, come and shake bum, come and see another person that looks like you in a type of setting, that, to me, is politics.”

Karen Nyame KG

To KG, throwing a heavy, unapologetic party is the ultimate political statement. Marginalized bodies have historically been “whipped, chained, abused, controlled, denied softness,” she points out, forced to operate in constant survival mode, bracing for impact the second they step outside. Her response is to curate heavy, sticky rooms designed purely for release. “If I say, come and rest, come and shake bum, come and see another person that looks like you in a type of setting, that, to me, is politics,” she explains. “Because I choose to center joy, movement, and desire… that is not separate from politics. That is politics. That, to me, is activism”. 

Fans regularly approach her after sets, completely overwhelmed, telling her they needed the space to purge. “It’s so powerful, it’s a healing,” she says. Consider it the best, sweatiest, copay-free therapy session in the city.

Epiphany is out now via Black Acre. Buy it on Bandcamp or stream it on Spotify, Apple Music, YouTube Music, Amazon Music, and TIDAL.

Read the full interview below:

You’ve called Epiphany your “Dominion” chapter, and it’s undeniably sensual. What are you leaving behind to get to this level of unapologetic energy? This project is a massive turning point. For years, I only dropped EPs, this is a reckoning. The epiphany is that I’ve reached a new level of artistic audacity. It’s a total metamorphosis and a level of mastery I’ve been building toward. Before I head into album mode—and I’ve never made an album before—this is the turning point.

Your early tracks were entirely instrumental, and you kept your identity completely hidden. What was the reality of the scene back then that made anonymity the safest bet? If it were up to me, I wouldn’t have been hidden at all. I was one of very few Black West African women trying to enter the technical side of electronic music. Women were expected to sing. I could count the female producers on one hand. I was working independently, dodging predatory men, and hitting walls regarding what society deemed “marketable” for a dark-skinned woman. I refused to cater to the male gaze. Staying hidden was just the reality of an industry that had no infrastructure to support what I was doing.

You were grinding on pirate radio back when there was zero money in it and no guarantee of a career. What kept you showing up to the booth?

Sheer, unspoken passion. I started hosting on Westside Radio because I love to talk—give me a live mic and I’ll yap for ages. With the underground stations, it was pure drive. I loved the power of standing alongside a sea of men in a male-dominated scene and holding my own. I was so married to getting my stuff out there that I never bothered thinking about the outcome. Looking back, this was part of my purpose.

You completely quit music for six years. What actually brought you back, and why did you decide to learn how to DJ in public, surviving the trauma of real-time trial and error?

I didn’t take a break, I quit. Holy hell, I was done. But Goon Club Allstars reached out on Twitter wanting to reissue my old work, which felt divinely orchestrated. I believe in trying new things to get new results, so I decided if I was returning, I had to change the playbook. I used to be a total snob about DJing—I produce, why do I need to do anything else?—but playing your own edits to a room is an unmatched feeling. Two of my Ghanaian friends taught me the basics in 2017, and even with the trial and error in public, I haven’t looked back since.

Your voice is ridiculous—we were literally floating when we listened to the EP. Why did it take so long to actually let yourself sing on your own tracks?

I’ve only recently gotten comfortable opening up my throat chakra and expressing what’s within. My formative years were straight beat-making, and keeping things instrumental was just practical since I was using demo software. That era refined my signature groove and taught me how to leave room for vocals. It’s a massive compliment now when people hear a track and say, yeah, that’s a KG record. I cringe hard at the early stuff—we’re our own worst critics—but you can hear the evolution in every track.

You’ve remixed everyone from Kelela to Hikaru Utada. How do you strike the balance between preserving their original magic and giving a track the signature KG treatment?

Certain voices and tones are instruments, so I try my best to make the vocal the centerpiece. I’ll do a few chops here and there, but I build the KG swing around it. I never want to erase the element people connect with. I want them to know it’s a new version of the original, but it’s KG’s version, too. A lot of house producers chop vocals into oblivion until the singer loses their place, which I refuse to do.

Remix culture is having a massive resurgence. With so much corporate red tape and AI lurking, where do you see the art of the rework heading?

We’re in a regenerative era. The archives are buzzing and people are bringing old material into the new sphere. It’s beautiful how a great remix can send people right back to the original. But between the copyright red tape and the monster that is AI, we need a middle ground. We still need to innovate. If the early innovators hadn’t made anything, we’d have nothing to sample today. If we stop making music, who is anyone going to sample in the next twenty years?

You stopped chasing external validation. What was the first thing you did differently?

I stopped caring about scaling up aggressively. Management teams usually push for hollow follower counts, but internet numbers don’t buy tickets. I pivoted to the 300 or 400 diehards in my “Rhythm Nation” who follow me everywhere. It’s wild to travel to the other side of the universe in Australia and have Ghanaian people find me and say, “Yo sis, I saw your name, I had to come support.” When you stop trying to make things bigger aggressively, they get bigger anyway.

Rhythm in the City evolved from a party into a label. Is that an extension of the music, or a totally different beast?

It’s the same core vision: championing unconventional African dance music. The label is a home for artists who are left of center, and since they play our events, we’re building a family. It’s a logistical nightmare doing it alone while building my own brand, but the community makes it worth it. And the diversity isn’t lip service—we live that. You’ll see a Black woman running the entire night from the decks, and our lineups are consistently 80 to 90 percent POC and LGBTQIA+ artists.

Electronic music owes its existence to Black and queer communities, yet visibility is still a massive fight. What’s changed since you started?

It’s progress and regression simultaneously. There are more initiatives now than ten years ago, when we were hidden under a veil, but today, representation is often just a performative box to check. I know emerging DJs who support massive acts, but aren’t put on the flyer. Visibility is currency. Keeping someone’s name small while they build your dance floor is systemic. It’s infuriating, but it just forces me to show up louder. I have the bruises, but we’re moving.

You skip explicit political slogans for heavy club tracks. Why is the club your primary method of activism?

Every artist has their ministry. Centering joy, movement, and desire is a radical political statement for marginalized people. I told a white friend that their antenna doesn’t have to go up the way mine does when I travel, wondering if I’ll face profiling or homophobia. So when I say, come and rest, come and shake bum, come and see someone who looks like you—that is politics. That is real healing.

You got into production by obsessing over video game menus. If you could go back and produce three gaming soundtracks, what are you picking?

I had every console—Sega Mega Drive, Wii, PlayStations, everything. First: Tekken. The house tracks were unbelievable, I would just leave the page on a character because I loved the music so much. Second: Grand Theft Auto. I’ve had a few sync deals fall through, so I’m hoping they circle back—that is bucket list material. Third: Cool Boarders on the PS1, my introduction to liquid drum and bass. Society expects Black baby girls to play with Barbies, but I was glued to a console.

What are you listening to when you’re completely off the clock and just living as Karen?

My palate is all over the place, which is the fun part. Lately, it’s synthwave and 80s pop—it’s kind of computer-gamish. But ear fatigue is real. Sometimes I need silence or low-intensity music to reset my nervous system. If it’s early, don’t give me the darkest afro-tech. Give me Sade. Let’s warm into the day.

You’re about to go on tour with stops in Belgium, Greece, and Croatia. European crowds definitely aren’t shy about letting you know exactly what they want on the dance floor, so how do you handle an audience that might not be instantly primed for your sets?

I’m selective about the rooms I play because I’m not compromising my tracklist—I stand ten toes down on that. I’d rather stay home than play a bad vibe. Touring Europe is a social experiment. When I played Horst Festival in Belgium, I had to follow a DJ playing dancehall, going from Wayne Wonder into deep South African house. It was a massive challenge to work them up to 120 BPM, but once they got there, they stayed. My agent and I are intentional, we don’t just take anything.

What are the absolute perfect conditions to listen to Epiphany front to back? Where are we, who are we with, and what are we doing? “In My Room” is peak-time intensity. “Stay” is the midpoint to catch your breath and debrief with friends. Then “Allure” pulls you back into that dark hotel-room vibe. We close on “Shuda Crz,” which is this midnight, full-moon type of music—the ultimate landing point for the end of a good night. I didn’t want an EP full of singles, I wanted a mood.

Written by: HQ

Photography: Condry Calvin Mlilo

Makeup: Grace McCartney

Styling: Rashida Taylor

Assistant Stylist: Kalila Lync

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