Anniversaries: Promise by Sade
Rather than chasing trends, Sade doubled down on their strengths on Promise. Live playing, spare yet lush arrangements, and lyrics that explore love’s complexities without melodrama.
In the mid-1980s, the airwaves were awash with high-gloss technopop. Drum machines and frosty synths defined many hit singles, and the climb of Black pop royalty was measured in laser-bright dance numbers from the likes of Michael Jackson and Prince. Against that backdrop, a London-based quartet fronted by Helen Fọláṣadé Adu offered a different proposition. Released barely a year after their breakthrough debut Diamond Life, Promise didn’t chase radio trends or neon-tinted visuals. Instead, it warmed contemporary pop with live-played textures drawn from jazz, Brazilian music, and soul. This second release quietly challenged mainstream expectations: an unhurried collection of songs whose restraint and sophistication invited listeners to lean in rather than dance out.
The group was originally an offshoot of Pride, a Latin-soul ensemble on London’s club circuit. It consisted of vocalist Adu, saxophonist/guitarist Stuart Matthewman, bassist Paul Denman, and keyboardist Andrew Hale. After Diamond Life became a transatlantic hit, the pressure for a follow-up could have forced the band toward formula. Instead, they treated their second album as a chance to deepen their craft. Recording sessions between February and August 1985 at London’s Power Plant and France’s Studio Miraval favored live takes over programming. The production team used electronic drum pads and sampling technology sparingly; acoustic instruments dominated, with a miked-up piano sharing space with a Fender Rhodes and a Hammond B3 organ. A new Yamaha DX7 digital synthesizer added bright chimes, while the band’s horn section—tenor sax, trumpet, and trombone—colored the arrangements. These choices gave Promise a warmth uncommon among mid-‘80s pop releases.
That warmth is immediately apparent on the opening track, “Is It a Crime.” This six-minute epic unfurls slowly, anchored by live drums, bass, and Hale’s keys. Hammond organ swells and djembes lend the song a big-band aura; Matthewman’s sax weaves in and out like a lead voice. The song uses grand imagery to convey devotion. Adu sings of a love “wider than Victoria Lake” and “higher than the Empire State.” The chorus repeatedly poses the title question—is it a crime to still want you?—while crescendos build like waves, cresting before receding. Mainly recorded live in the studio, the track captures the band playing together with minimal overdubs. As the album’s emotional center, “Is It a Crime” sets the tone: this music takes its time, reveling in dynamics rather than hooks.
The next song, “The Sweetest Taboo,” is intimate and rhythmic. A gently chugging groove reminiscent of bossa nova underpins Adu’s vocal, and the production leaves space for Denman’s bass to pulse and Matthewman’s sax to respond. The lyrics describe an overwhelming love that feels almost transgressive—“you give me the sweetest taboo,” she sings. The chorus references a “quiet storm… that never felt like this before,” directly linking the track to the late-night radio format that emerged in the mid-1970s and peaked in the ’80s. Its smooth beat and suggestive lyrics made it a staple on “quiet storm” radio playlists and the perfect soundtrack for dimly lit after-hours sessions. This illustrates how the band could craft hits without compromising their understated ethos.
“War of the Hearts” shifts the mood. A ballad built around gentle percussion and atmospheric keyboards, it depicts relationship strife as a battle. Adu sings of being “loaded” but unwilling to “fire,” of two lovers who must make peace before the “fire has got to cease.” The refrain, “It’s a war of the heart,” is hypnotic, and the instrumentation mirrors the lyrical tension: muted guitar lines, soft cymbal splashes, and layered synth pads create a sense of suspended time. The song’s structure resists verse-chorus conventions, instead flowing like a conversation, which underscores the band’s anti-pop leanings.
On “Jezebel,” the band turns to storytelling. Over a measured groove and discreet sax fills, Adu sketches the life of a woman who learned early to captivate. “She probably had less than everyone of us,” the lyrics note, yet she knows how to “bring the house down.” Adu refuses to judge her subject, observing that the titular character “won’t try to deny where she came from” and carries both pride and “the raven in her eyes.” The music complements the narrative with subtle dynamics; Hale’s keys add understated chords while Matthewman’s sax hints at melancholy. The band’s empathy toward marginalized characters becomes a recurring motif on the album.
“Mr. Wrong” offers a lighter, jazz-blues shuffle that belies a cautionary tale about elusive lovers. Denman’s bass locks in with drummer Dave Early’s groove while Hale spices the mix with keyboard stabs. The track’s brevity—under three minutes—feels almost like a palate cleanser between more weighty songs. “Never As Good As the First Time,” by contrast, is buoyant and reflective, exploring nostalgia and the way first experiences linger. Adu sings that “good times they come and they go… You lose it, then it flows right to you.”
The album’s deeper cuts reveal the band’s willingness to experiment. “Fear” expands the palette with strings arranged by Nick Ingman and flamenco guitar played by Carlos Bonell. The combination evokes Mediterranean landscapes, and Adu even sings parts of the song in Spanish, adding to the cosmopolitan feel. “Tar Baby” tackles motherhood. The lyrics tell of a young woman who reveals a pregnancy—“Tar baby told the secret she conceived”—and the chorus celebrates the new life with affection (“Tar baby, I love you so”). The instrumentation mixes warm electric piano with hand percussion and subtle guitar. While the song engages a fraught topic, the band’s gentle delivery underscores compassion rather than judgment. “Maureen,” the album’s closer, stands out as an upbeat homage to a lost friend. Adu sings of never seeing her again and wishing she could “meet my new friends,” but the track’s light rhythm, call-and-response vocals, and horns lend it the feel of a celebration rather than a lament. That juxtaposition of melancholy and joy epitomizes the band’s ability to find beauty in sadness.
Beyond individual songs, Promise builds on the band’s live-oriented aesthetic. Mike Pela engineered sessions with analog tape and a Harrison MR3 console, blending the warmth of a live room with modern technology. Electronic drum pads triggered samples via an Emulator II synthesizer, but the band still relied on acoustic drums, shaker and cabasa rhythms, and Matthewman’s guitar. The subtle addition of a Yamaha DX7 synthesizer allowed for shimmering textures without overwhelming the organic instruments. The result is a record that feels both of its time and timeless: the production is clearly mid-1980s, yet the musicianship keeps it from sounding dated.
Although the record’s sound was miles away from the digital sheen of Michael Jackson’s Bad or Prince’s Around the World in a Day, its commercial performance placed the band in the same conversation about Black pop stardom. In a year when R&B artists increasingly embraced synthesizers and elaborate choreography, Promise offered listeners a different kind of sophistication. Adu’s understated stage presence—elegant ponytail, hoop earrings, crisp tailoring—contrasted with the hyper-visual personas of her contemporaries. The band’s ability to reach number one while eschewing contemporary gloss demonstrated that quiet could be powerful. It also broadened the scope of Black popular music by creating space for introspective, jazz-infused sounds that would later influence the neo-soul movement and artists such as Anita Baker and Maxwell.
The album’s graceful arrangements and lyrical themes continue to resonate. Its songs have been sampled by hip-hop producers and covered by singers across genres. The warmth of the analog recording, the deliberate pacing, and the blend of jazz chords with pop melodies give the record an enduring appeal. Listening today, one hears the musicians playing together, responding to one another’s subtle shifts in tempo and dynamics—a quality that streaming-era productions rarely capture. Promise also feels like a snapshot of a particular moment, when an artist could step out of the mainstream current and still become a star. Its combination of live musicianship, poetic storytelling, and understated groove remains a blueprint for artists seeking to marry sophistication with soul.