Anniversaries: Calling All Lovers by Tamar Braxton

For Tamar Braxton, Calling All Lovers remains a crowning achievement—the album where she called all lovers to listen, and left them feeling every note.

Courtesy of Epic/Streamline Records.

Two years earlier, Tamar Braxton’s comeback record Love and War had debuted at #1 on Billboard’s R&B chart, earned three Grammy nominations, and firmly established her as more than just Toni Braxton’s outspoken younger sister. With Love and War’s title track becoming a modern R&B anthem, Tamar had stepped out of the shadows and into her own spotlight. Calling All Lovers, released in October 2015, was positioned as the victorious follow-up, and Braxton embraced a grand, theatrical presentation to signal its importance. The album’s packaging was styled as a faux newspaper called the “Tamartian Times,” a nod to her fanbase (the “Tamartians”), and featured Braxton in elegant, serious poses. Unlike the smiling Tamar seen on reality TV, the booklet photos showed no grin—just a determined artist ready to bare her soul. This elaborate presentation promised drama and depth, and the music inside lived up to it, offering a journey through heartache, sensuality, and ultimately, devotion. A decade later, revisiting Calling All Lovers reveals an album rich with emotion and variety—one that in some ways surpasses its hit predecessor, even without Love and War’s blockbuster single.

Braxton chose to open the album with a trio of stylistic detours that immediately set Calling All Lovers apart. The first track, “Angels & Demons,” surprises the listener with a reggae-inspired vibe—skanking guitar accents and an island-flavored lilt in the beat—as Tamar sings about a love marred by turmoil. “Our love has angels and demons, please don’t run away with my love,” she pleads, summoning imagery of good and evil forces battling over a relationship. It’s a bold opener that nods to Caribbean influences and immediately showcases Braxton’s willingness to experiment. In the song’s music video, filmed in the Dominican Republic, she leaned fully into the aesthetic—dancing under waterfalls and in village streets amid colorful backdrops. Despite the tropical sound, the emotional core is classic Tamar: dramatizing the push-and-pull of a passionate but volatile love affair.

Where “Angels & Demons” is an unexpected tropical breeze, “Catfish” is a completely different detour—a retro-modern midtempo groove driven by a chunky breakbeat. Produced by hitmaker Polow da Don, “Catfish” cleverly samples Biz Markie’s 1986 hip-hop classic “Nobody Beats the Biz,” flipping that familiar breakbeat into an R&B context. The result is a slinky jam that feels simultaneously nostalgic and fresh—as if New Jack Swing’s heyday had been revived for the Tinder era. Lyrically, Tamar takes on the concept of catfishing, calling out a lover’s lies over a beat that bumps in a way R&B fans of a certain age will find satisfyingly familiar. “Don’t flex,” she chides playfully, a catchy refrain that lodges in your head. Braxton’s vocal rides the groove with ease, her tone brimming with sass but also a hint of vulnerability beneath the bravado. As the second track, “Catfish” solidifies the album’s adventurous start—two songs in, and we’ve already spanned reggae pop and breakbeat-driven R&B.

The third opening track, “Simple Things,” shifts gears yet again, offering a church-ified ballad that brings Tamar back to her gospel roots. Co-produced by Polow da Don and veteran R&B producer Blac Elvis, “Simple Things” is steeped in soul: gentle piano and organ chords, a slow-burning groove, and background harmonies that could be at home on Sunday morning. Braxton’s voice shines in this more traditional setting, belting with a raw, churchy power. The song’s message is one of gratitude and love beyond materialism—she assures her man that she doesn’t need “the house, cars, clothes, rings,” just the simple things like his love and presence. It’s a touching thematic turn after the turmoil of the first two songs, essentially pausing the album’s narrative of romantic strife to remind us what real love looks like at its purest. In a spoken-word bridge that slides into playful monologue, she scolds her overworking partner with wit and warmth: “We got lights, we got food… we even got FaceTime… honestly, we don’t need none of that as long as we got each other.” The album finds its focus and settles into a sustained sequence of lush R&B ballads and slow jams, the territory where Tamar’s vocal prowess truly takes center stage. From this point forward, Calling All Lovers unfolds like an emotional song cycle, tracing the full arc of heartbreak and healing that Braxton promised.

In the album’s early mid-section, heartache prevails, and Braxton dives deep into the pain of love gone wrong. The sultry gloss of “Broken Record” masks a plaintive theme—as the title implies, she’s stuck reliving the same romantic disappointments. Over a plush arrangement of soft synths and slow-drag percussion, Tamar compares a toxic relationship to a scratched record that keeps looping the same sad song. Her vocals carry both resignation and resolve, belting out high notes one moment and dropping to a near whisper the next, as if conversing with herself about finally breaking the cycle. “Circles,” which follows, only intensifies that sentiment. Co-written by Tamar with Tiyon Mack, “Circles” is a classic R&B heartbreak ballad in the Mary J. Blige tradition—raw feelings laid over a dramatic, swaying beat. “I can’t keep going in circles, round and round with you,” Braxton cries, her voice dripping with frustration and hurt. The lyrics read like a diary entry after a devastating fight: tears streaming down her face as she wonders how she fell into the same trap again, heart dragged “through the ground, left… battered and bruised.” It’s one of the album’s most emotionally potent songs, and Tamar’s delivery lives up to it—anguished yet controlled, conveying the exhaustion of someone at the end of her rope.

All of this turbulence leads to “Never,” a centerpiece that represents the crest of the album’s heartache. Positioned midway, “Never” is an authoritative kiss-off to an unappreciative lover, delivered with elegant fury. Produced by Brian Alexander Morgan—the songwriter behind SWV’s ’90s hit “Weak”—the track has a throwback R&B grandeur: a steady, thumping kick, twinkling keys, and background vocals swelling like a gospel choir of support. Braxton uses that platform to unleash a scathing final verdict on a man who took her for granted. “You treat me like I’m nothing, you take me for granted… Well, since you wanna act like that, I swear you’ll never kiss my lips again, never feel my love again,” she declares with palpable conviction. Each repetition of “never” is fiercer than the last, until the word becomes a mantra of self-respect. In the bridge, she flips the script on her neglectful partner: “Since you ain’t really love me, I’ma find one who will… when you’re alone, don’t be blowing up my phone.” It’s a moment of triumph within the sorrow—the sound of a woman reclaiming her dignity and walking away. Tamar’s voice is commanding here, soaring in melismatic runs that channel both her sister Toni’s rich alto and her own sharper-edged tone. Braxton has let us witness her vulnerability, and now she stands tall, effectively closing the chapter on pain.

Calling All Lovers begins to shift toward solace and hope. “If I Don’t Have You,” which arrives a couple of tracks later, still mines feelings of romantic pain, but from a different angle—that of desperate longing. This ballad (the album’s second single and a Grammy nominee for Best R&B Performance) finds Tamar in full torch song mode, pleading over simmering old-school production by Da Internz. “If I don’t have you, I can’t love no more… I’ll lose my mind if I don’t have you,” she sings, her voice trembling on the edge of heartbreak. Unlike the defiant stance of “Never,” here Braxton is clinging to a love she can’t bear to lose, bringing nuance to the album’s emotional narrative. Her delivery is intense and heart-wrenching—you can almost see her, sitting in the dark with tears in her eyes as the song’s bluesy instrumentation swells around her. “If I Don’t Have You” bridges the two halves of the album: it belongs to the heartbreak side in content, yet its plea for love also hints at the devotion soon to come.

With “Raise the Bar,” the clouds finally part. This song, produced by Darhyl “DJ” Camper and written with Claude Kelly, is an uplifting mid-tempo that celebrates a lover who has restored her faith. The track’s smooth, modern groove—polished keyboard loops and subtle electronic drums—provides a backdrop for Tamar to layer dreamy harmonies (she even harmonizes with herself in impressive stacks). Lyrically, it’s pure gratitude: “Every wrong turn… led me to ya,” she sings in a breathy, almost awed tone. “You raise the bar… I can honestly say that you broke down every wall… You’re the best by far.” After all the songs about insufficient, hurting love, “Raise the Bar” is a deep, contented sigh—love not only as comfort, but as elevation. Braxton sounds refreshingly at peace here, giving one of her most tender vocal performances on the album. The back half of Calling All Lovers luxuriates in declarations of devotion and desire, reveling in the glow of love found. The short interlude-like track “I Love You” (a breezy, two-minute ode) keeps things simple and sweet, as if Tamar is jotting a quick love letter in song form. Then comes “Makin’ Love,” whose title alone signals the sensual road the album is now taking. Over a seductive, slow jam arrangement, Braxton coos about intimate nights and emotional connection; her voice here flips effortlessly from sultry low notes to airy falsetto, conveying the seductive mood. By this point, any lingering sorrow has melted into passion.

The one-two punch of “Love It” and “Must Be Good to You,” back-to-back near the album’s end, turns the heat up several notches and marks the pinnacle of Tamar’s celebration of sexual confidence. Across these two tracks, Braxton transforms from the heartbroken heroine into a self-assured seductress, reveling in pleasure and power. “Love It” is a brash bedroom banger, all booming bass, tapping keyboards, and rattling percussion in its production. Tamar rides the edgy beat with swagger, taunting her lover in the verses about how irresistible her “comeback candy” is—“nothing better, no sweeter than my love,” she boasts, “you know you love it.” There’s playful dominance in her voice as she teases, “I’ma tie your hands behind your back… tell mommy how bad do you want it.” It’s a side of Braxton that earlier albums hadn’t explored so explicitly: unapologetically in control of her sexuality and fully aware of the effect she has on her partner. If “Love It” is the heavy, sultry grind, “Must Be Good to You” is its lighter, funkier counterpart—a springy disco-funk number that bounces with retro flair. Built on a sleek bassline and shimmering synth flourishes that nod to late-’70s groove, the song practically glitters. Here, Tamar continues the theme of carnal bragging rights: “Remember that time I blew your mind? Now you don’t wanna share—must be good to you,” she smirks in the opening line. The hook is cheeky and infectious, with Braxton proclaiming, “Hell yeah, I love it… it must’ve been good to ya!” She sounds like she’s having a blast, ad-libbing little laughs and exclamations throughout. The disco influence suits her surprisingly well—her voice easily finds that swaggering groove, even throwing in a playful falsetto here and there.

The LP closes on a note of heartfelt homage with “King.” This tender ballad is dedicated to the two great loves of Tamar’s life—her husband Vincent (whom she often called her “king”) and their young son Logan. Fittingly, Braxton co-wrote the song and even co-produced it, ensuring it would be a deeply personal statement. “King” unfolds gently, with piano and understated drums framing her vocals, which are brimming with reverence. Lyrically, it’s filled with images of loyalty and gratitude; she sings to her husband as the steady rock who “turned my life around,” and to her child as the pure light of her world. The chorus swells with emotion as Tamar declares, “Every path that I took led me straight to you—you’re my king.” It’s not hard to sense Braxton’s own awe in those words. After an album full of vocal fireworks, she exercises restraint here, letting the melody and sentiment carry the weight. The choice to end the record with “King” brings the thematic arc to a satisfying close: we’ve gone from the agony of love lost to the joy of love found, from pleading for affection to standing in awe of it. Braxton effectively plants her flag—love, in its purest form, reigns supreme over all the drama that preceded.

At a time when R&B was splintering into alt-R&B minimalism and trap-soul grooves, Tamar Braxton delivered an unabashedly sumptuous contemporary R&B record that honored traditional soul values—powerful vocals, heartfelt lyrics, and sophisticated arrangements—while still playing with modern beats and genre mash-ups. That gives Calling All Lovers a timeless quality. The lush balladry and gospel inflections harken back to the ‘90s and early 2000s R&B era (it’s easy to imagine some of these songs being hits in 1996 or 2006), yet the album doesn’t feel dated; instead, it feels classic. Braxton’s vocal performances certainly help in that regard—her technique and passion imbue the songs with an authenticity that transcends trend. Listening today, when proper vocal-driven R&B albums are rarer, one can appreciate Calling All Lovers even more as a showcase of a singer at the top of her game, laying herself bare. “It’s a very open album,” as Tamar herself said upon its release—a document of the tumultuous love life she endured before the Tamar you see now. That openness gives the album its emotional punch and has helped it age well; pain and healing are feelings that never go out of style, after all.