Beats, Borders, and Belonging: An Immigrant’s Reflection on Dave’s Masterpiece

Release Date: July 23rd, 2021

Genre: Hip Hop/Rap

Awards: Album of the year (Brit Awards)

As someone deeply interested in music, you would probably assume my playlists are meticulously organized by genre, ambiance, or artist. Surprisingly, I am quite the opposite. My "main" playlist is my liked songs on Spotify—a collection that spans my eclectic taste, from middle school favorites to the song I couldn't stop listening to last month. When I'm not in the mood for something specific, I often leave it up to chance and hit shuffle. Something is thrilling about the mystery of what might play next—hip-hop, classic rock, folk, alternative, indie, who knows?

A few weekends ago, while driving home and letting shuffle take the wheel, I was reminded of one of my all-time favorite albums. I know that's high praise, but perhaps it's the nostalgia, the emotional resonance of the songs, or the way Dave uses his platform to creatively shed light on critical social issues. All of those reasons are true, but what I love most about this album is that it did something few others have—it completed a part of my identity I didn't even realize was missing. As the last song played and I pulled into my driveway, it felt symbolic. Just as I had arrived home physically, the album had guided me "home" internally—back to my true self, just as it had done in my lonely bedroom in India during COVID, and again now, three years later.

One of the UK's most coveted musical exports, Brixton-born, Streatham-raised Dave is one of the world's favorite rappers on the other side of the Atlantic—and it is all for good reason. His 2016 debut EP, Six Paths, left listeners in awe, wondering whether the then-18-year-old prodigy would sustain his trajectory, rubbing shoulders with the likes of Drake; he has become one of the best rappers to ever come out of England. Dave's debut album, Psychodrama (2019), silenced any doubts with its platinum success and earned him Album of the Year honors, setting an almost insurmountable bar for his subsequent work.

Yet, We're All Alone In This Together, a name inspired by a conversation with the legendary Hans Zimmer, Dave offers more than just a follow-up. This album serves as a profound commentary on the collective experience of lockdown while urging us to confront the uncomfortable truths embedded in the history of the world. Through his exploration of the African immigrant experience, Dave masterfully balances celebrating a vibrant culture with a critique of the systemic wrongs inflicted upon it. This piece of work is his most introspective work yet, digging so deep into his personal life that it might as well be considered an audio autobiography; with just his second studio album, Dave has struck gold again. 

Background: 

In 1948, the Empire Windrush's passenger ship arrived in London from the Caribbean. The ship's name became synonymous with a generation of immigrants heralded over to Britain by former colonial governors to help rebuild the country from the damage of the Second World War. Seventy years later, in one of the biggest British political scandals in English history, it was revealed that the insensitive UK government had wrongly deported thousands of Windrush immigrants, stripping them away from their homes and identities. To this day, they await their reparations.

Analysis: 

We're All Alone In This Together begins with the pips of a film reel cue mark, signaling the commencement of an unfiltered, memorable story. The album's opening tracks unfold like action sequences, where Dave's rap flexes are interwoven with searing critiques of social injustices. The first song on the album, We're All Alone, exemplifies this dynamic process. Midway through the song, a gut-wrenching shift occurs—punchy drums give way to the haunting simplicity of a solo piano as Dave confesses, "I got a message from a kid on Sunday morning / Said he doesn't know what to do and that he's thinking of killing himself." This sudden change in tone, from swaggering verses about favorite foods, holiday destinations, and luxury cars to a stark revelation, might seem abrupt if not for Dave's willingness to open up in return: "Me and him got more in common than he thinks." This is the moment I knew the path Dave would pave with this 12-song album: an hour-long exploration where bravado is in a constant battle against brutal honesty, creating an unfiltered narrative that blends braggadocio with the sobering reality of lived experience.

My favorite aspect of the album is its inclusiveness. It balances such emotional and heavy songs with bouncy afrobeat drums and, for lack of a better description, club bangers. Following the heavy-hitting, mood-setting opener, the album flows into the two songs with Verdansk and Clash more aligned with the rapper's UK-drill upbringing. However, my favorite upbeat song on the album has to be System featuring fellow Nigerian artist WizKid. The song remains tethered to the album's overarching themes; the track is built on the infectious rhythms of Afrobeats, a genre that has recently risen in popularity and has long served to celebrate African culture and identity. Dave's collaboration with WizKid, one of the most influential artists in the genre, is a testament to the transcontinental synergy that the album focuses on building. On the surface, System might seem like a departure from the more serious tones of the preceding tracks. The song's vibrant production, layered with pulsing beats and melodic hooks, will surely have you nodding your head or drumming on the steering wheel (As I did on the drive back home). However, beneath this seemingly light exterior lies a deeper narrative. Dave's verses navigate the intersection of cultural pride and immigrant experience, subtly weaving in reflection on belonging and identity. As he flows effortlessly over the beat, his lyrics continue to embody the duality throughout the album— juxtaposing moments of lightness with an ever-present awareness of the complexities of his heritage. My favorite part of the song is WizKids chorus, which, in my opinion, adds a hypnotic characteristic to the track, combined with Dave's effortless flow, creates a song that not only invites listeners to dance but also encourages them to consider the broader context of what it means to exist within and outside of one's culture. System is more than just a summertime anthem; it is a reminder that joy can be found even amid struggle.

The fifth track on the album, Three Rivers, is related to the album cover— a small boat adrift at sea, a symbol of migration, which is the album's and song's central theme. In this slow grime track, Dave masterfully weaves three different stories of migration, each exploring the journey of immigrants as they settle into the UK. The first verse delves into the story of the Windrush generation, a group "Drafted to England" with the promise of citizenship and better life conditions. However, the immigrant policies left many in legal trouble, with some tragically deported despite their long-standing contribution to English culture and society. Dave shouts out the Notting Hill Carnival, one of the world's largest street carnivals, and he mentions footballers of Caribbean descent on the England national team to highlight further how the UK benefits from migration but does not reciprocate this benefit. The song's purpose is powerfully conveyed through the samples from various news reports that expose the false promise made by the British government. The one sample that resonated with me the most was a moving testimony from an individual who paid taxes for 37 years but was still deemed illegal. The second verse shifts focus to a migrant family from Eastern Europe, painting a vivid and disturbing picture of the violence they fled. Unlike the first verse, which centers on the African/Caribbean origins of migrants, this verse is steeped in the horrors of persecution, with chilling lines like "dictators and leaders persecuting your people" and "bodies of the innocent piling." The verse closes by highlighting the unhealthy coping mechanisms—harassment, abuse, and drinking—that some immigrants tragically adopt. This narrative struck me as particularly thought-provoking, as it underscores the generational trauma that occurs through the hardships rooted within migration, which can be the bedrock of violent habits. The final verse is about migrants from the Middle East. It sheds light on the duality of Western governments with lines like "Your oppressor is your liberator." Dave calls out those countries/governments that profit from the demise of developing nations through weapon sales or exploiting natural resources while simultaneously building walls to protect themselves from immigrants fleeing the chaos they create. The song's outro adds a personal touch as it features famous Academy-Award-winning actor Daniel Kaluuya, reflecting on his identity as a British born of Ugandan parents. Dave exposes the systemic inequalities that bound black individuals worldwide through clever allusions and astute commentary. 

While I write this review, I am constantly battling my desire to review every song on this album and making sure that the review is not too long to bore my readers. However, it would be a disservice if I did not convey my opinions on the 10-minute, emotion-filled, penultimate track—Heart Attack. I do not know if enough words, metaphors, similes, or adjectives can genuinely describe this soulful masterpiece, but I will try my best. As the name suggests, the song starts with the rhythmic thumping of the heart that flows into yet another news sample, this time highlighting the rise of violent crimes among adolescents in the London area. Dave does a deep dive into his life, walking the listener through every stage of his life, from his dark times as a street gangster to covering issues of immigration, knife crime, and the deaths of young black men. He starts the song with lines, "For half my career I was part of that/My best friend got a burner, and it's lookin' like an artifact/Put it in your puffer or your Prada hat/Like f**k panic, that's a heart attack." As the track progresses, Dave delves into his experiences, discussing the harsh realities of street life and the cyclical nature of violence in his community. Emphasizing the parts of this lifestyle that are glorified are the same aspects that leave you, "... burying your ni**as Or in Jail, wondering whos puttin' d**k in your Missus." The minimal production of this song is haunting— providing a somber backdrop that lets his lyrics take center stage. 

Then, my favorite part of this whole album follows; around the seven-minute mark, something remarkable happens— the beat drops out entirely, leaving Dave's voice to carry the total weight of the narrative. In this raw acapella section, he unleashes a torrent of emotions, his voice growing in anger with every line. He reflects on the pain and frustration of his upbringing, the pressures of fame, and the trauma that continues to haunt him. This whole section is capped off with his realization through all these personal experiences— "A black yutes more than a face on a screen/ A number on a laptop or a name on a sheet/We got stories to tell and got places to be/ From my hear that is the making of me." However, the outro to this masterpiece is what pierces a hole through the listener's heart; Dave's mother recalls her journey to the UK through tears, with lines like, "I was in detention camps for months in the end, I didn't give up/I was not even 20 when I left Africa/ I was determined to survive/ I was determined to succeed." Every lyric, every line, and every rhyme in this track has emotion and passion. To me, this song is the fruition of the heart of a man who survived the lifestyle he was systematically put into. Heart Attack is painfully honest and personal. Often, we do not appreciate how much artists put into each lyric or line to be this truthful and vulnerable in their music, and in this case, the amount of pain that has gone into telling his story is abundantly clear. This, to me, is the standout track of the album. It is hard to describe what it feels like to listen to this song as an immigrant, although in a vastly different scenario. Suppose there is one thing I would recommend to you all. In that case, it is to take 10 minutes out of your day and listen to a gritty individual tussle with his powerlessness to affect change, along with the guilt and pressure he feels as a second-generation immigrant. In my experience, the best communicators show rather than tell—At just 23, Dave is on his way to mastering this subtle distinction. This song is a triumph in storytelling, one that solidified Dave as one of the most critical voices in modern rap.

Importance

As I mentioned, this album holds a special place in my heart, resonating with different stages of my life—from the darkest times to the most cherished moments. Most recently, it brought me back "home" during a drive to Cincinnati a few weekends ago. Throughout the album, Dave raps with the wisdom of someone who has lived several lifetimes—perhaps because, like many immigrant kids he writes for and about, he's had to grow up faster than most. Reflecting on the past five years, I'm often both proud and surprised at how I've managed to keep up with the relentless pace of life. During these tumultuous years, I've battled depression, felt the deep ache of homesickness after leaving my family 8,000 miles behind, and navigated the challenges of "adulting" on my own. These experiences have forced me to mature quickly—learning to cook, working not just for my future but also to ease the financial burden on my family, particularly for my sister and grandparents.

I am incredibly fortunate to have the unwavering support of friends, family, and mentors, without whom I wouldn't be where I am today. Yet, despite this support, I often find myself fighting internal battles alone—by choice, not by necessity. When your parents are already covering your college expenses, and you rely on others for housing, transportation, or basic advice, it's hard not to feel like an extra burden. I vividly recall the frustration of arguing with my mom my senior year, who was reluctant to let me get a driver's license. Looking back, it's understandable—immigrant parents living oceans away from their 18-year-old son would naturally be worried about such a decision. But at the time, I wasn't upset about not driving like my friends; I was frustrated by relying on my friends for rides, another item to add to the list.

Since moving back to America, I haven't been able to shake the unsettling feeling that I'm a burden—to those who house me, those who help me move into my dorm, and those who assist with legal matters I'm unfamiliar with. Like a shadow, this feeling never leaves me, always lingering just out of reach. Until a few weekends ago, my goal was to adapt to any household, any situation, and to become as independent as possible—both financially and socially. I wanted to do whatever was necessary to ease my burden. But striving to become this self-sufficient person, I began to lose something crucial—my sense of self. I became so focused on blending in with whatever family I was staying with or adopting the likes and interests of whichever friend I was with that I started to lose sight of what I truly enjoyed, of the family culture I wanted to cultivate.

Listening to this album creatively express similar emotions from the perspective of another immigrant made me realize I'd been approaching this all wrong. Instead of questioning the help around me, I needed to embrace it. Dave raps in "Heart Attack," "I think back to my youth, and I was so ungrateful/How many of our parents had dreams they abandoned/ So, could they put food on the table?" These lines made me realize that I must appreciate everything my parents and others have done for me. My goal now is not to become the most independent version of myself but to repay every penny and every rupee invested in me. This album isn't Dave's magnum opus, and my achievements aren't mine either; Dave and I are just barely past the opening credits.