Wizkid’s Superstar: 15 Years And A Day

Earlier this year, while rifling through old reviews of Nigerian pop music—a nerd-ish voyage that traversed unsurprisingly scathing criticism waters—this writer stumbled on culture journo, Oris Aigbokhaevbolo’s review of Ayo ‘Wizkid’ Balogun’s debut LP, Superstar. It wasn’t the original publication, but instead Aigbokhaevbolo’s reproduction on Medium in a sort of middle finger to the internet’s ephemerality. 

Reading through the article reveals some of the critical consensus about the album at the time: recognition of a bona fide star with somewhat questionable musical choices like over-reliance on autotuned vocals, which Wizkid has outgrown, and a preponderance for hollow, yet catchy lyrics—lamba, to borrow from street-pop speak— which he’s returned to in the two years post-Morayo. What stood out the most was the writer’s parallel comparison of Superstar and Alternative act-turned-gospel singer Bez Idakula’s debut, Super Sun. Two albums with titles that could as well be interchangeable. Both are debuts by voices heralding a change of guard, or more accurately, for Wizkid, shaping a new Nigerian pop sound. Dare we say, ‘the’ Nigerian pop sound. And now, exactly 15 years later, both are classic albums through and through. 

But where Super Sun is a cult classic, Superstar is an undeniable, groundbreaking, generation-defining totem pole. Along with Wande Coal’s Mushin 2 Mo’Hits and 9ice’s Gongo Aso—some music historians also place Timaya’s True Story in this bracket—it is the yardstick by which Afro-pop projects, dating to whatever is to be released next New Music Friday, are defined. One would have a harder time passing a whale through the eye of a needle than locating any list of contemporary classics in Nigeria without Superstar’s inclusion. 

The album’s cover art belongs to a class of pop culture artefacts capable of generating nostalgia, awe, admiration, and critical discourse just by existing. Wizkid in a purple and white checkered shirt and black inner vest, rocking those slick 2000s and 2010s rosary neckbeads—think MI Abaga and Show Dem Camp in the Dreamer video (coincidentally, it was released just 8 days before Superstar) or Don Jazzy’s flashier set in Wande Coal’s Bumpa 2 Bumpa. Dark shades on with his name italicised in bright purple on both lenses. Designed with vector illustrations and a light bubble brightness, commonplace to  pop surrealism covers at the time.  The EME logo in the upper left corner and a purple star-embellished illustration of the album title that would give Ayra Starr fans a run for their sability. Ojuelegba’s number one son looks to be ascending in the picture; perhaps intentional from designer Osa ‘Seven’ Okunpolor,  perhaps not.  

Wiz doesn’t look an inch out of place on a flier for a ‘reception party’ for the album somewhere on once popular blogger, Olori Supergal’s website. In the comment section, one can find a lone anonymous account expressing delight at having enjoyed themselves so much on said day. This writer tried to find out if the venue used for the Superstar release party—SS Lounge 7, Sapara Williams Street, Victoria Island—was still active, but found only abandoned website directories. One can’t help but wonder what has become of this site of pilgrimage. Cars probably pass by without a care in the world. And generations of performers might have held events there afterwards. We really can’t tell. Someday, an ambitious documentary director might be moved to include this seemingly unimportant footnote in a film about the artist’s life. Or a docu-series focused on Superstar specifically, picking up from where the 10-part interview series, A Superstar Made in Lagos, stopped, for the album’s 10th anniversary in 2021. Whatever it is, there just won’t be enough of a medium to capture the album’s essence. 

This is not because Superstar is the greatest album ever made. Wizkid’s magnum opus, Made in Lagos, is inarguably the superior project in his catalogue. Not to talk of other projects from that time period that have somehow aged backwards, attaining new heights as each generation discovers their chords and drum patterns. Superstar’s reverence lies in how downright prophetic it became of one of our greatest musical exports ever. An announcement that’s matched only by Asake’s Mr Money With The Vibe in its instantaneous appeal. And a level of transcendent hit-making on an album that very few have matched since, including Wizkid himself. Of  the 17 tracks on here, only one wasn’t a hit—mega, sleeper, or ‘bubbling under hot’. 8 are guaranteed party starters anywhere in the Federation today (Say My Name, Pakurumo, Love My Baby, Don’t Dull, Tease Me/Bad Guys, Holland at Your Boy, Wiz Party, and For Me). The rest are sleeper hits that accumulated a fair amount of airplay, sure to trigger nods of acknowledgement at your local marketplace and even more substantial reactions in the South West, specifically (No Lele, Gidi Girl, Oluwa Lo Ni, What You Wanna Do?, Eme Boyz, Wad Up, and Shout Out). 

And while this writer agrees with Aigbokhaevbolo’s earlier assessment about some of these songs lacking refinement, alongside numerous other issues—harsh mixing, synth and vocoder abuse, corny songwriting, and imitation hip-hop flows, to name a few—they do not take away from the album’s impact on Nigerian pop music, as a whole. Think about it this way: we do not get the sensual Afro-R&B and dancehall Wiz of Made in Lagos without Gidi Girl and Holla at Your Boy; the larger-than-life Afrobeat and indigenous Yoruba music-lean doesn’t emerge on Ayo (Jaiye Jaiye, Ojuelegba, Mummy Mi) if he shirks fuji runs and pockets on Eme Boy and Oluwa Lo Ni; Starboy Wizzy doesn’t attempt to take over the world on Sounds From The Other Side if he didn’t already explore fusion arrangements on Don’t Dull and Wad Up. You can draw intersecting lines from every single Wizkid project—given his impact on the sound of Nigerian pop music, many other Afro-pop/Afrobeats projects—back to that one album made by a 20-year-old unafraid of failure. Even down to his recent feature run. 

With an abundance of anecdotes about Superstar’s place in Nigeria’s music hall of fame to pull from, it’s somewhat dizzying deciding where to draw this retrospective to a close. So instead, let’s walk through the official video of Pakurumo. At the EME Headquarters, a distracted booking officer, played by Linda Ejiofor-Suleiman, mixes up booking requests for Pasuma and Wizkid. When she’s to inform Banky W afterwards, Wizkid is wrongly tagged for the Pasuma event, and Pasuma is sent elsewhere. Fast forward to the D-day, Wizkid—swagged out in a faux Jesus piece—and fellow EME Boy, Skales, arrive at the venue, to an animated Funke Akindele who hurls insults, lamenting being sent an unknown singer. However, as Wizkid begins his performance, the party transforms into a proper ówańbẹ, replete with sprayed Naira notes, vigorous waist whines, and all the other ingredients of fàájì. An ensemble cast of supporting characters, including Tiwa Savage, Mo’cheddah, Davido, Ice Prince, Bank W, Lynxx, Samklef, Masterkraft, Noble Igwe, Shina Rambo, DJ Xclusive, Shina Rambo, Tee A, and Ali Baba, light up the screen at intervals, punctuating the revelry with laughter and jouissance. The video ends with Wizkid declaring that EME is taking over the world. 

When you watch, you’ll notice many of the other details that make this album such a milestone musical achievement. Superstar was a labour of love in an industry that no longer exists. An industry where collaborations were normative. Now, even among fresh breakout stars, shooting a video with such pop culture heft would cost two arms and a gold leg. Aside from that, the Clarence Peters-shot Pakurumo video is a throwback to the era of visual storytelling. Everyone nowadays is either trying to be a TG Omori clone or a Gabriel Moses fabrique storyboarding to death. And then, there’s Wizkid’s star power, an evolution of the D’Banj-2Baba-PSquare triumvirate’s blueprint, that you see in acts like Rema. A swagger affirming knowledge that he is ‘HIM.’ You then understand why Wiz was commanding such coverage at a mere 20 years of age. This is star power the algorithm cannot replicate, try as we may. 

Close your eyes. Imagine a world where Superstar does not exist. Bleak, right? 

Now open and enjoy the greatness.