As Alté’s influence started to wane in the coming years, subtle tensions with the mainstream would surface. Outside this insidious tension with the mainstream, a number of Alté acts—dissatisfied with the scene’s diminished position, of its apparent failure to reach the towering predictions pundits had set—left the scene or turned their attention elsewhere.
3 months ago
On an otherwise unassuming day, early in July this year, Maison 2500, one of the gleaming jewels of the Alté renaissance in 2019, announced to his followers, in a now-deleted post on X, that he would be quitting music. His fans, and Alté acolytes, responded with a flurry of entreaties, urging that he reconsider his decision. His decision to quit was framed by the backdrop of a flailing Alté scene, which he helped catapult to the forefront of the zeitgeist in 2019 with his debut album Maseworld. Following Alté peak in 2019, many mainstream acts started to co-opt the scene’s elements. Afropop acts quickly adopted the bohemian fashion sensibility of the Alté scene. Sonic elements from the scene filtered into the mainstream canon. Creatives from the Alté scene—photographers, video directors, music producers—were increasingly tapped by the mainstream. Everyone became Alté, and soon, no one was Alté.
As Alté’s influence started to wane in the coming years, subtle tensions with the mainstream would surface. Outside this insidious tension with the mainstream, a number of Alté acts—dissatisfied with the scene’s diminished position, of its apparent failure to reach the towering predictions pundits had set—left the scene or turned their attention elsewhere. Maison’s decision to quit was not for any of these reasons. He is in fact not quitting and is set to release another album: Karma. “I needed to get that thought out of my head because it was looping in my brain. I needed someone to hear it, preferably everyone, so I could delete it from my memory. And I haven’t thought about it since.” He says.
When Maison appears on a slice of my Google Meet window, he looks to be living in a minimalist art painting. Framed by the backdrop of a sparsely populated white room, he is seated on a gaming chair, wearing a white t-shirt, and a black snapback. Several of his locs poke out of his hat, running down his face. When he speaks, his voice is buttery and mellow; a sharp contrast to the brash elocution in his music. In his right hand is a vape, which functions as a punctuation mark during our conversation.
Maison was born in Maryland, US. He grew up as a cosmopolitan; mostly based in Lagos, but constantly moving between countries. When he was 10, he moved back to the US. But when he was in Nigeria, he attended Grange School, in Ikeja. It was in Grange that he earned the reputation of “the creative kid”. During periods of reprieve from schoolwork, he and other members of his rap group would take turns climbing tables to deliver freestyle raps. Rapping and occasionally horsing around, sprinting down the hallwaysmade him a repeat offender with the seniors. “Back then, Teezee (Teni Zaccheaus) was in year 11. I was in year 5 or 6. Teezee’s people, friends in his year group, found out I rapped. So anytime I would come up the stairs, they’d put me on punishment or tell me to rap on the spot.” He would rap and they would be impressed.
As a teenager, he was influenced by Lil Wayne. At home, after school, he would spend hours rifling through Lil Wayne’s discography, listening, with the intent of absorbing Wayne’s glib mumble rap sensibilities, by osmosis. Afterward, he would fill out A4 papers with raps, and hide them from his mum, under his bed. “I used to write pages and pages of raps, and I still have some on SoundCloud from when I was, like, 10 years old. You know?” He says smiling. Horror films were another fixture of his childhood. The Exorcist, from 1974, is the first film he ever saw. This love for horror movies still cuts through his art today. His songs typically rope in ominous chords and freewheeling guitars that recall a horror movie score. His music videos often lean into the bizarre, evoking the same anxious excitement characteristic of horror films.
He’s aware that his childhood wasn’t always rosy. His migratory upbringing has left him restless as an adult, unable to commit to staying in one place for very long. “I’ve spent most of my twenties, like, 80% of my twenties in isolation. Like, right now, I live by myself, and I just go somewhere random in the world,” He’s also cognizant of the effects of abruptly shuffling locations. He tells me it has cost him relationships with friends and lovers. He’s aware of his personal foibles, in the same way a drug addict can be aware of his shortcomings but still powerless against the pull of his addictions. The world can get overwhelming, suffocating even; when that happens with Maison, his first instinct is to seek a clean break, a fresh reset. “When you grow up alone, constantly moving and going to boarding school somewhere and everything just feels new, you just kind of become that person.”
But, in the same spirit of self-awareness, he’s also aware of the unique blessings of his childhood. He credits all his childhood experiences— the good, bad, and the ugly—with shaping him into the person he is today. “I feel like everything I went through and endured kinda just made me this genius of a mess I am today.” The culturally amorphous nature of his sound directly feeds into his nomadic upbringing. His love for horror films was the germ that bloomed into his obsidian-inflected songs and videos. Listening to Lil Wayne and rapping in Grange, helped hone his rap sensibilities. He’s also conscious of his privileged upbringing—having access to a wealth of cultural influences—compared to most of Nigeria. At one point he tells me “ sometimes the way I see it, us, the Alté movement, we have taken so much. For a Nigerian kid like me to grow up listening to Marilyn Manson, before Lil Wayne, is the reason I can do weird things that the mainstream might not go for because they didn’t grow up like that.
Throughout our conversation, he’s stoic, reticent, almost brooding. His enunciation is crisp and measured. His face is mostly expressionless, save for the times when he breaks into a laugh, or when he turns inwards, to introspect, and occasionally, when he reclines to puff on his vape. But his outward demeanor does not translate into reticence. He’s very conversational and self-aware. He laughs often, mostly when he reflects fondly, on memories from his childhood. One theme that threads our conversation is karma. It’s the title of his imminent album. It’s also a concept he dilates on, in B4 Karma Knocks!, the EP he released in May.
B4 Karma Knocks! is a curation of songs culled from his imminent album Karma. The original plan was to put out two songs, but he didn’t think they were good enough. So, he shelved them for a year and a half. Later on, he decided to corral the songs he felt weren’t good enough for the main project, and release them as a prequel to the album. At this point in our conversation, he’s palpably contrite. He tells me all the evil he has done, to his old friends, and to women who loved him, has come back to bite him. This album, he says, was forged from those experiences. On Karma, he is creating like he did on Maseworld: giving his fans what they want. “I’m making it for myself, in consideration of other people. So now I’m just working for the people.” He says, almost didactically.
Karma is inspired by Skepta and Pierre Bourne. The album will feature artistes he loves, from around the world. The album will also function as a crucible of the various cultures that have forged him. He tells me the album has a song called 419, which explores internet fraud. “It’s amazing, honestly, to just talk about being a Nigerian prince, you know, which is ironic, which is why it’s called 419.” For Maison, Karma signals a rebirth. “I’m killing the old me, and I’m rebuilding myself back up again.” He tells me. The album is also going to be consistent with his pattern of fusing his tastes in film and culture.
In July, Maison and Mowalola were embroiled in a minor row over similarities between Rema’s logo, for his Heis album, and Maison’s logo. The fray caused a bit of a stir, prompting impassioned rhetoric from supporters on both sides of the aisle. It resonated with people, sparking multiple conversations, mostly because it feeds into the larger discourse on the mainstream taking from Alté, without always giving due credit. A few days after the logo was officially unveiled, Maison woke up to a sea of people calling Mowalola out on X, for allegedly lifting the concept from him. “I’d already seen it (the logo). I love Rema’s music, so I just said whatever. I didn’t come out with a tweet ever saying she copied me” he says.
Regarding his relationship with Rema, he maintains that they’re on good terms. The two used to be close and have a song together. “I love Rema, bro. I hate that Twitter always makes stuff weird.”
Yet, Maison remains of the opinion that mainstream acts turn to Alté for influence, and cultural cachet, but he’s hardly bothered about it. In his view, he, alongside his coterie of fellow underground pioneers, are a sacrifice; taking on the grueling and often thankless job of being pioneers. “We are the influence. I’m not gonna say we take credit for everything, we don’t. Because mainstream artists are just as talented. But the way I see it, I’m a sacrifice.” He says, growing loquacious. He likens himself to M.I Abaga, who used to be his neighbor growing up, recalling a conversation with him. “One of my first favorite albums ever was from M.I, but he didn’t get his credit. So last time I talked to him, I told him, ‘Every time I can, I’m gonna give you your flowers because you made me who I am today’.
