There’s crack rock in that album. I mean, hardcore drugs. And you know exactly which album I’m talking about.
Beyoncé’s seventh solo studio album, “Renaissance,” was released July 29. Since then, I’ve listened to it an estimated 495,372 times. I haven’t been able to listen to anything else. I listen to it at the gym, on the train, when I’m sad, when I’m happy, with my friends, when I’m on the phone with my mama. I’m never not listening to this album.
It’s the lyrics, the transitions, the bad-bitch attitude oozing from this album — my God! This body of work is infectious as hell. My mind is no longer mine. It belongs to Beyoncé Giselle Knowles-Carter. She has me in a full nelson and pulls the exact strings she needs to so that I involuntarily shout “UNIQUE” at least 36 times a day. I’m pissed.
“All Up in Your Mind” is damn right because for nearly a month straight I’ve woken up with one of the 16 tracks on this house, ballroom-inspired, Afro-Caribbean-infused album stuck in my head before I can even open my eyes to greet the day. Hell, I even accidentally told an old lady in the street to “move, move, move, move” while singing along on my routine hot girl walk.
It’s sick. Beyoncé is truly America’s problem.
And it’s not even just me that thinks so. Open Twitter right now. Or TikTok. Or even Instagram for that matter. Actually, just walk outside. You’re gonna hear this damn album in excess. It didn’t dominate the Billboard charts by coming in as the No. 1 album and charting all 16 songs on the Hot 100 by itself.
We’re all addicted. Just look.