Of the stars of the fabled land of Naij, there once was one who emerged with a song declaring himself unstoppable, a child of affluence who wore it proudly, never shying away from whispers about his privilege. At the time, some suggested his music was a fad. 15 years later, we know this to be untrue. Not only did he become one of the land’s greatest musical exports, he did so as part of a triumvirate hailed as the ‘Big 3.’ You would be remiss to discuss the land’s contemporary music without him, short of a fabricated ahistory.
However, for all his grandeur, this singer has one consistent flaw: releasing subpar music projects. On his first attempt in 2012, he put out an album stacked with now-classic hits, yet jarring and lacking cohesion as he was still seeking out his voice. He tried again four years later with the not-so-merciful EP, but that was also a creative bust—largely due to circumstances beyond his control. Riding on the wave of successful singles in 2017 and 2018, he tried yet again with the first of the ‘Time’ LPs, a statement piece that rewound the chronological hater-clock he was shown on earlier projects. When he attempted a two-peat the following year, audiences showered him with boos and digital tomatoes. “The fillers were excessive,” they said. “Too many features. He’s trying to be American,” they said. He took lessons from their admonitions, bearing the grief of a personal loss, and returned with a final ‘Time’ instalment in 2023, a balanced tome that was commendably cohesive but still ‘just okay’. Not one to be stopped, he released a number-themed album last year, a doldrum affair signalling certain complacency.
He has descended once more from his secular mountain with the latest album, Oríadé. O yes he has, this star named after the Biblical boy shepherd. But the central point remains simple: after 14 years of consuming his projects, at what point do expectations go from wanting more from your favourite artist to imposing upon them an artistic cage? Accept that this is what his albums sound like. Take the new music as it is and make peace with A Good Time being a one-off, otherwise we’ll remain pilgrims crying out in the wilderness to absolutely no one who cares. Boo hoo!
This writer suggests reading his 30 July, 2026 Vibe Magazine interview with culture journalist, Ivie Ani. In fact, this writer would even suggest that anyone who hasn’t yet listened to the 13-track album should read this first, and for those experiencing OBO fatigue, you can read this alone and move on with your day. Effusive as ever, Davido talks about his mindset going into album no. 6, calling it curated for the summertime as “There was really no need to drop an album,” but he was just “sitting on so much beautiful music.” He emphasises still being excited by his job, looking for new ways to challenge himself to make music, to share his love for touring and being on the road, and his now more reserved recording process—compared to the ten man-deep monster sessions in the past. He talks about learning from his mistakes, desiring to be remembered as somebody always ready to share blessings, and how family held his hands through grief. He discloses his interest in movies, parallel to stars like Elvis Presley and hip-hop juggernauts like Ice Cube, Ice T, and even Ikechukwu, before him. And when you listen to this album ‘there was really no need to drop,’ it all makes sense.
Oríadé is all your Davido-isms condensed into 4 less tracks than all five albums before. All the things you loved and hated about them, only more mature. You have your emotional, expository intro in On The Road—a summary of the Vibe interview, so to speak, with cookie-cutter price-of-fame crooning (“Always setting goals/Living lavish but people can’t understand”) over Discotheque Afro-R&B drums. Where have you heard a sentimental Davido intro before? Well, everywhere else. Anything on 5ive (Technically, it’s the poem Five by Alhanislam). OVER DEM on Timeless. FEM on A Better Time. Intro on A Good Time. Declaring himself superior to All of You on Ọmọ Baba Olowo: The Genesis. When it’s not braggadocio, it’s surmounting life’s challenges. When it’s not bashing haters, it’s clamouring for more understanding from listeners.
He’s married, and he’s still a lover boy, so you have a record trove in the full Nigerian romance spectrum. 8 of 13 records on Oríadé are right at home on culture journalist Ayomide Tayo’s Nigerian love songs emotional spectrum chart: Amazing Grace (Adoration), Julie (Heartbreak), Gimme That Thing (Sensuality), B4 B4 (Infatuation), Already Falling and Yaya (Longing), Tell Everybody (Assurance), and Zanzibar (Devotion). On the upside, there’s even less filler romance than on Timeless. Leon Thomas and Aya Nakamura make appearances on Tell Everybody and Yaya, respectively; the former a 3-step R&B aberration of drab cliches, the latter a Rhumba pastiche of Yoru-French (“..Parlez Français, ẹ ma ma fi mí ṣeré”) and Engl-igbo (Zọputa me, I need your help”)—both excesses to the album.
Before and after that two-track wreck, the album’s best love songs sit pretty. Second lead single, Gimme That Thing taps next-rated contender, NO 11, and his producer JJAY (HOW FAR) for an exhibition of Davido’s cross-generational appeal. You think you’ve heard lamba before until our youngin sings about his mum forewarning him of the Illuminati and Davido asks the lady in question to “kunlẹ (kneel) for Alhaji,” sprinkling an interpolation of Fireboy’s Peru (“Wọn ní wọn wá mi) for good measure. If you can’t get past NO11’s slightly grating “Hee-Hee” melisma, you’d at least enjoy the A&R-ing excellence that is bringing Mayorkun and FOLA together on a beat straight out of DMW 1.0. Davido, again, unconsciously draws from pop culture (Illbliss’ Aiye Po Gan and Olamide’s Falila Ketan in the same breath). The BBL is hallowed. FOLA reminds you of the music industry’s sour Bourdillon connections.
If you still can’t get past Mayorkun’s corny lines (“Your maggi fit to make me Knorr Knorr”)—proudly posted on X, heaven forgive us—try Already Falling. You can’t dislike Already Falling. Davido plays up that Elvis comparison from earlier, interpolating his 1961 classic Can’t Help Falling in Love. It’s one of those adoptions that betters the original, catapulted by Peruzzi’s Tye Tribett-styled background vocals. Call and response magic on the better of both songs produced by Classic and Sensei (Guide’s only positive is that it incorporates Igbo nationalist chant, “Nzọgbu Nzọgbu, Eyimba Eyi”). The bass guitarist on this song earned their check full time. And the world be damned if this doesn’t make wedding playlists. Yes, this writer says so knowing that Davido sings “I dey chop am, Carnivorous.” People that danced to B-side P-Square records at their reception don’t get to tell us anything.
There’s Zanzibar to close out the quartet, quite similar to KANTE, and far more exciting than the Black Sheriff-assisted Amazing Grace. Somehow a record with Blacko turned out to be banal even as David abandoned his typical maximalist approach. But even that—features surplus to requirement—is a Davido-ism. We still haven’t recovered from the Better Time flood. There was at least pleasure to be suckled from Llona’s presence on My Light, both men in sync as they recount the difficulties of touring. In an interview with Culture Custodian, Llona recalls the feature aligning just right with his sophomore album, set for release just a week later. Yet again, strong A&R-ing.
For want of versatility, Davido loses his figurative voice on Oríadé multiple times in a replay of 5ive. You can listen to Constantly and without being told Pheelz’s pen was involved, you’ll arrive at that conclusion independently. The problem isn’t that Pheelz composed, it’s that Davido disappeared in the process. An even worse outcome is when he’s very obviously chasing a past sound as on the E Pain Me-esque Julie. And what would you know, same producer for both songs. Davido’s impersonation of Davido for the price of your already strained time.
His themes haven’t changed much. He has just figured out how to package them more maturely. Oríadé crowns Davido as master of himself and his sound. He has improved exponentially from the Dami Duro Days. He also has more to say now. But these do not particularly translate to producing a world-beater album. He says he loves being on the road and spending time with his family, and wants the world to know how thankful he feels. He says beforehand that the album was not a ‘need’ but was released so we can have music for the summer. But then he spends the bulk of the album’s run time singing songs of love—implied to be for his wife on certain songs. And you’re incensed that it’s formulaic? Please, double wàhálà should be for dead bodies. Save yourself the hassle.
When Culture Custodian co-founder and editor-in-chief, Mayowa Idowu spoke to Davido in 2014 for the inaugural ‘#The Culture Custodian’ column, he just wanted to “make music for himself.” In that profile, Idowu pondered about how today’s 30BG 001 would handle a scenario where he’s faced with a dissenting voice. Six albums in, that continues to be the case. “With age and increased experience, one would expect a greater degree of maturity.” Six albums in, that has gone on to be the case.
