In 2025, the release of an album has become a full-blown performance – part film, part circus, part fever dream. It’s no longer enough to simply drop a record; it must arrive dressed in drama, mystery, and frenzied anticipation. The rollout has become an art form. It gives an album a body and a pulse – a way to live outside the music. But lately, that skin is beginning to look more alive than what lies underneath.
Nowhere is this more obvious than in the release cycles of Davido’s 5ive, Burna Boy’s No Sign of Weakness, and Sarz’s Protect Sarz At All Costs. Three of the most anticipated albums of the year. Three rollouts that were bold, inventive, and near-perfect in execution. And three albums that, once the dust settled, left listeners wondering whether all that noise was orchestrated to make up for the fact that the music simply couldn’t hold itself up on its own.
Davido’s rollout for 5ive was a cultural moment in itself. It kicked off not with endless press conferences or radio interviews, but with a Twitch stream – a digital hangout with Cruel Santino, the eccentric architect of Nigeria’s underground alté scene. For hours, the two artists drifted between jokes and candid conversation. It didn’t feel like marketing; it felt like watching a friend’s unfiltered livestream. And that was the genius of it. Davido had found a way to promote his fifth album without exactly mentioning it directly, letting the spectacle of authenticity do the work. Within hours, clips from the stream ricocheted across social media. People weren’t just talking about Davido’s music, they were talking about Davido, the persona.
Then came The 5ive Special Minisode on I Said What I Said, one of Africa’s biggest podcasts. It was a smart, calculated move, a way to tap into a demographic that mainstream Afrobeats often overlooks: the young, socially conscious, female podcast listener. From there, the rollout moved seamlessly into elite spaces — a Martell Towers listening session hosted by Jola Ayeye and FK Abudu, and an intimate Spotify meet-and-greet at Ona Restaurant in Lagos. It was all impeccably staged. Davido wasn’t just selling an album; he was selling a lifestyle – effortless and relatable, while still tantalizingly out of reach. The irony is that when 5ive finally arrived, the sound didn’t match the world it had been wrapped in. The album was neat, airbrushed, but samey. From the choice in features to the general sound of the album, it was clear that the project reached for the global market, but also left its soul behind somewhere between the studio and the strategy deck. This is especially frustrating given the quality of its predecessor; Timeless – a project that, to date, remains Davido’s most cohesive and intentionally curated body of work. One would have expected an upward trajectory from there, but with 5ive, despite its near-perfect rollout, the quality of the music instead seems to be spiraling downward.
Burna Boy’s No Sign of Weakness was a different kind of theatre – the grand, larger than life kind. He started with the single “Update,” a song meant to set the tone for a new era. Then came his French Billboard cover; face brooding, title blazing, the album name printed like a prophecy. Days later, Burna blurred his face across streaming platforms, swapped his profile pictures for the “loading” icon, and turned his social media pages into puzzles. It was visual poetry, the kind of cryptic marketing that feeds an artist’s myth. When the tracklist dropped, with features from Mick Jagger, Travis Scott, and Shaboozey, the internet briefly lost its mind. For over a week, Burna Boy owned the conversation, but when the album came out – just as quickly, the conversation fizzled out.
Listening to No Sign of Weakness feels like being at a lavish party where everyone looks beautiful but no one quite has anything substantial to say. Update has evaporated gradually from airwaves. Tatata felt like a hollow echo of Rema’s Ozeba wave – a lacklustre mimicry rather than a mutation. This is the same Burna Boy who shifted culture with Outside and again with African Giant, back when his music carried narrative, hunger, and risk. Now, the edges have been sanded down. There are flashes of brilliance, yes, but they are swallowed by the album’s own ambition. In marketing the project as a monument big enough to impress everyone, Burna seems to have made something that belongs to no one.
Then came the producer’s producer, Sarz, with an album title that promised expansiveness: Protect Sarz At All Costs. Fans had waited years for his solo debut, and he responded with a rollout that was pure spectacle. A short film here, a mock press conference there – each piece a mini-event. In one clip, comedian Layi Wasabi stars in a parody action movie, demanding that the soundtrack be played. In another, Sarz sits silently in a group therapy session while distraught “fans” complain about his refusal to release the album. It was hilarious, self-aware, and perfectly timed. It tapped into everything Nigerian audiences love: humour, community, the feeling of being in on the joke. The rollout was a production. But when the music finally dropped, it was as though the magic had dissipated on impact. The album was pleasant, technically sound, but hollow at its centre. For an artist with such a vast catalogue, who has worked with everyone from Wizkid to Lojay, whose name is synonymous with innovation, the record played it frustratingly safe. It was irony in motion; a cinematic rollout for an album that didn’t quite deserve the screen.
These rollouts are not isolated phenomena; they’re symptoms of a wider shift in the Afrobeats industry. The genre has exploded globally, but the explosion has come with trade-offs. What is evolving isn’t necessarily the music, it’s the business. Streaming platforms, brand partnerships, and global recognition have made Afrobeats a thriving industry, but not necessarily a thriving art form.
One way this manifests is in the rate at which mainstream Afrobeats acts are releasing projects. The shelf life of the average Afropop album has shortened drastically, and artists are increasingly failing to maximise the potential of existing projects before moving on to the next shiny thing. Capitalism rewards visibility, not vision – and artists, along with their teams, are now incentivised to create moments: to trend, to profit, but not necessarily to make the lasting cultural impact that gives art its meaning.
Once upon a time, the problem was quite the opposite. The music carried immense cultural weight, but the packaging was often clumsy – grainy album covers, awkward press runs, and little to no marketing infrastructure. The 2000s and early 2010s were filled with sonic gems wrapped in less-than-stellar presentation. Asa’s self-titled debut album, released in 2008, was followed only in 2011 – giving her time to grow as an artist, make the most of her debut era, and, most importantly, find something new to say by the time her next project arrived. The rollouts may not have been as glossy or meticulously curated as those we see today, but the artistic development was undeniable.
Now, the industry has perfected the wrapping, only to lose sight of the gift inside. Labels and managers appear obsessed with optics, influencers, and algorithms, while artists are encouraged to play safe – to chase what’s proven rather than what’s possible. Even emerging acts are beginning to sense the fatigue. When Mavin signee Magixx recently took to Twitter to ask fans how best to promote his upcoming album, it felt like an open confession: even the biggest labels no longer know how to make music truly stick.
Afrobeats’ growing pains are global capitalism’s oldest story; something organic and radical becoming boxed and streamlined into a shiny, soulless brand. But genres don’t die because they go mainstream; they die when they stop taking risks. The best of Afrobeats – from Asa’s restless innovation to Asake’s modern alchemy – has always come from chaos, from artists daring to make something that doesn’t sound like anything else. The rollouts we are seeing now have that same audacity, that same creative hunger – but the music has forgotten to match it.
While rollouts can make albums appear legendary before they even drop, legends are made in the music, not the marketing and even if it doesn’t happen from the jump, audiences eventually see right through the packaging. We firmly believe that Afrobeats’ global renaissance has come to stay, but if Afrobeats is to outlive its own virality, it will have to remember that no matter how dazzling the presentation around it, a project means nothing if the tracks don’t sing.
