Courtesy of Momo Boyd
Earlier this week, my coworker Tobias made an offhand comment about how he hadn’t listened to real singing in a long time. I was struck by this realization. To explain: recent standout albums from Tiffany Day, underscores, and Slayyyter has meant that most of what I’ve been listening to contains some form of electronically processed vocals that are Auto-Tuned, chopped, or distortedly fuzzed up. So when I pressed play on Momo Boyd’s new EP, Miss Michigan, it felt like getting to chug a gallon of cold water.
Momo Boyd is Singer with a capital S. Maybe you’d prefer to call her a belter or a crooner. She has pipes for days and her voice always sounds *moisturized*. Her vocal prowess isn’t like Beyoncé’s, where she’s flexing and hopscotching through songs with runs and falsetto. Her voice’s richness lies in its textural details, like the small threads that make up an expensive bolt of fine velvet. She’s the alto of her family band Infinity Song, which she’s in with her brothers, Abraham and Israel, and sister, Angel. Out of the group, Momo’s got the rootsiest, twangiest voice. It sounds divine over soft, pillowy guitar or pop melodies, or — as she recently learned, a Baby Keem-produced rap beat. And the world is finally getting to hear what exactly it’s capable of with Miss Michigan, Boyd’s first solo body of work.
The project is seven unfussy songs of personal songwriting with folky guitars, drums, and other soft, live instrumentation. In other words, it’s a package of good ol’ fashioned song-ass songs, a refreshing change when every other track in my inbox contains some element that’s been siphoned through a filter. Boyd’s music has a crackly, weathered quality to it. “Big Country,” with its boot-stomping beat, projects a sepia-toned supercut of Boyd walking for “miles and miles in broke down high heels” in my head whenever I listen to it. “Cold Hands” opens with an almost Lana Del Rey-style orchestration before transitioning into a guitar-strummed soliloquy meant to be sung while perched next to an open window. Other acoustic odes like “Strong” and “Second Best” are almost deceptively simplistic while managing to wring out maximum heart-twinging payoff.
Much of the record is preoccupied with love and relationships, as Boyd sings about her own romantic history in the context of being a part of a broader lineage of heartbreak and marriages that end. “I’m a child of divorce / I’ve seen the war,” she warns on “Cold Heart.” On “American Love Story,” being the unquestioning, obedient partner goes against her DNA: “If I wasn’t so American, I might love you more, but giving up my independence, goes against my core.” It’s this bite, a sourness that runs through her otherwise sweet and accessible songwriting that keeps you invested in her universe.
And then, when you think you’ve heard everything you need to fully understand Boyd, in drops “Oops,” the album’s sumptuous, bass-busting R&B finale that I thought was the start of a different album the first time I heard it. It's inclusion is so random, it feels like Momo is having a little laugh for herself at the end of the record. But it's also the moment that won me over completely as a new fan ready to follow wherever she leads.
