Listening to Amara Fe’s debut album, “Reborn”, is a peculiar act of unearthing. You expect a phoenix from the flames, a cannon-blast of arrival. Instead, you get something far more interesting: the sound of a locked room being patiently, methodically picked from the inside.
This isn’t the clamor of a wrecking ball tearing down old walls for attention. It’s the quiet, assured scent of old paper and leather in a forgotten library aisle—the smell of substance, of things that last. Fe, having seized the production reins, crafts a narrative that values inner wisdom over external volume. Her vocals, steeped in the soulful RnB of her family’s legacy (you can feel the shadow of Minnie Riperton, for whom her grandmother wrote, in the effortless grace), don’t shout for validation; they command a specific, intentional space.
She built this herself. You can hear it in the careful architecture of the alternate pop arrangements, a framework for a story about shedding the societal pressure to be smaller, louder, shinier, other. There are anthems of independence here, certainly, but the most compelling moments are in the cracks. The album breathes, admitting to the lingering sting of regret, the slow, cautious process of learning to trust your own footing after trauma. It’s a liberation that knows the weight of its former chains.
It all charts a course from being an overlooked footnote to becoming the entire text. It’s a journey so complete, so deeply considered, it leaves you with a strange and unsettling final thought.
What does one do with a second, self-made life?
