In July 2015, at the height of the Black Lives Matter movement, British singer/composer Dev Hynes released “Do You See My Skin Through the Flames?”, an 11-minute assessment of race and self-worth at a time of intense struggle between blacks and law enforcement. “This is not from my forthcoming album,” Hynes asserted, “just some things on my mind.” The cover art depicted an elegant black figure—his back straight, his fingers clutched deep into his own flesh. The image showed strength; on the song, Hynes unpacked the yin and yang of everyday life as a black person: “I’m proud of my name, I’m proud of my dad, I’m proud of my family, but it’s very strange to have to carry that… we all carry that, every black person carries that.” To live black is to live conflicted. There’s the urge to live freely and be accepted, even if the world at large is still uncomfortable with people of color. We feel an innate sense to protect our own kind and hold each other close. We are prisoners of perception; our culture pillaged, our style and vernacular mocked and imitated, only to be told we’re not good enough to be equal.
Freetown Sound, Hynes’ third album as Blood Orange, arrives days after Baltimore police officer Caesar Goodson Jr., who drove the van in which 25-year-old Freddie Gray was fatally injured, was found not guilty on all charges against him. That same day, a grand jury in Collin County, Texas, decided there wasn’t enough evidence to indict former McKinney police officer Eric Casebolt for slamming a black teenage girl to the ground at a pool party. June 25th would’ve been Tamir Rice’s 14th birthday, but he—a black preteen—was shot by a Cleveland police officer who thought Rice pulled a handgun from his waistband. Earlier this month, 49 people died in what’s being called the deadliest mass shooting in U.S. history, after a gunman walked into a gay Orlando nightclub and opened fire. And just last week, the United Kingdom—where Hynes is from—voted to leave the European Union, sparking chants of racism from liberals.
Freetown feels shaded by all these events, even if public outcry over racial injustice has dissipated slightly over the last year. Hynes offers a broad view of black culture, using vocal clips and spoken-word poetry to craft a multifaceted narrative of historically underserved people. “Black can get you over, black can sit you down,” says a sampled voice toward the end of “With Him,” from Marlon Riggs’ 1994 documentary, Black is...Black Ain’t. On “Love Ya,” we hear author Ta-Nehisi Coates outline a very real conflict facing most minorities: figuring out what to wear—and how to wear it—as to not intimidate others. “How was I gonna wear my pants?” he recalled. “What shoes was I gonna wear? Who was I gonna walk with to school?” Most people take these things for granted, but as a minority, your fashion sense can be seen as a threat. “Hands Up” references the 2012 killing of Trayvon Martin in Florida, where George Zimmerman—a neighborhood watch volunteer—shot the unarmed teenager and claimed self-defense. “Keep your hood off when you’re walking…” Hynes warns. “Sure enough, they’re gonna take your body.” Throughout Freetown, he speaks directly to those who look like him—the overlooked and under-appreciated, the persecuted and misunderstood—consoling his community while highlighting our collective grace. “Chance” treads the same ground as D’Angelo’s “The Charade,” using self-hurt to dissect racial inequality. “All I ever wanted was a chance for myself,” Hynes moans through a voice steeped in sadness.