The “vocal bible” of pop R&B returns with her first album in eight years, sounding poised and warm but lacking some spark.
In the nearly eight years since her last studio album, Brandy has maintained a sturdy foothold in R&B and rap. She elevates Ty Dolla $ign’s weary hometown paean “LA” and serves as the spirit guide on “Ascension,” the climax of Jhené Aiko’s druggy second album. Her megahit “The Boy Is Mine” is the lodestar for two Mahalia songs, “He’s Mine” and “What You Did.” Vince Staples shouts out her song “I Wanna Be Down” on FM!; Chance the Rapper’s “Ballin Flossin” interpolates it. Despite this active influence (as well as her regular TV roles across the 2010s), B7 bills itself as a return. “Sorry for my tardy,” Brandy sings on opener “Saving All My Love,” as if she’s running hours late to a party in her honor. The apology feels warm and sincere, but the music that follows never recaptures that initial glow.
Brandy has never been a particularly scenic writer, but she made up for it with extravagant, heartfelt performances. While her reputation as “the vocal bible” seems to overlook the Gospel According to Whitney, the way she layers coos, sighs, and hums into knots of harmony and texture evokes the interiority of love, how it exists in your mind as much as with another person. Her best music makes romance feel like a transplant, a foreign force adopted into your essence, keeping you alive—unless, of course, it kills you.
The writing and performances on B7, though, are reserved. On “Unconditional Oceans” Brandy flatly describes love as a brewing storm. “The tidal winds blowing/The storm inside is growing,” she sings, sounding less like a storm-chaser than a news anchor reading from a teleprompter. “Lucid Dreams” is just as deflated. “Guilt dealt me tragedy inside/Ate me alive,” Brandy sings, hinting at inner turmoil and strife (and possibly alluding to a fatal car accident she was involved in in 2006) but not really revealing the shape of her emotions. There’s a strong sense of distance to B7, as if Brandy is recounting stories secondhand despite them ostensibly being her own. She’s described the record, which has been released under her newly created imprint Brand Nu, as “freeing,” but she generally feels more withdrawn than liberated.
That detachment might work if there were more sensuousness and motion to the record, but there’s little momentum to these songs. Nothing really builds, progresses, or ascends. Instead of drama, there is poise. Sometimes it works, as on “Borderline,” which is a coil of threats that feel perilously close to coming true. “Don’t you ever hurt me/I’ll change on you,” Brandy warns, her voice quaking with tension. You can feel the strain of her composure. She’s just as vulnerable on “Baby Mama,” proudly reclaiming the often dismissive term, but still baring her fangs. “Ain’t depending on you, I’m a baby mama,” Brandy says, the statement a boast and sneer.
Less compelling are the moments when Brandy holds steady. “Bye Bipolar” is a by-the-numbers kissoff that makes a clumsy pun of “bipolar” as Brandy spurns a leechy ex with saintly grace. Her dressing-down is so respectful and coolheaded you wonder why she’s bothering. On “I Am More,” she tries to end a love triangle, giving the guy at the center of it an ultimatum. “I can’t be the other woman/Mistress or a side piece order/I need more/Cause I am more,” she sings. But there’s no venom to her protest, no stakes.
The production is the album’s saving grace. Brandy, who has production credits on nearly every song, favors colorful and springy arrangements. Hit-Boy’s horn loop on “Baby Mama” is so bouncy that the song sways even when the percussion drops out. The ticking hi-hats and muted chords of Darhyl Camper Jr., LaShawn Daniels, and Brandy’s joint production on “Borderline” highlight the subtle upward and downward arcs of Brandy’s multiple harmonies; her voice is constantly coalescing and dissipating. And the propulsive finger snaps and bass kicks of “No Tomorrow” contrast the song’s grim subject matter about the end of a relationship.
Though Brandy’s voice remains a beautiful, resonant instrument, her songwriting here is so often functional and humdrum, and her performances rarely sparkle with personality or feeling. It’s obvious she has many stories to tell; what’s less clear is what compels her to tell them, what makes her want to sing.
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