When Jorga Smith agrees to do a feature on your album, you’ll get a listen from me. That’s what happened with Maverick Sabre, and I’m glad I poked my ears in.
Apparently, Sabre has been around a while and “lost” a major record deal. I say lost in quotes because from what I’ve read, this album–which he put out himself–has garnered much better reviews than either of his prior ones. The record is muddy soul, the kind of music you can close your eyes to, fuck to, but probably not dance to.
It’s smoky pyschedelia, the kind that’s in vogue these days but is rarely done well. It’s also full of politics, but it doesn’t feel politically heavy. It feels immersive, and even when songs like “Don’t Talk About It” verge on that most hated of genres, “white boy reggae,” it maintains it’s steady groove and pull.