Anniversaries: Untitled (Rise) by SAULT
In the context of SAULT’s prodigious sequence of releases, Untitled (Rise) reads like a definitive statement. They have given us an opus of purposeful movement, a polyrhythmic call to arms.
SAULT’s fourth album, Untitled (Rise), opens with an urgent invitation. “Strong” kicks off the record by unfurling a wriggling disco-funk groove laced with marching-band drums, impassioned group vocals, and spiraling synths and strings. It’s a glimmering, polyrhythmic call to arms—producer Inflo’s way of fusing rhythm and resistance—that finds vocalists Cleo Sol and Kid Sister harmonizing in ardent lockstep. The track’s celebratory flourish of sound announces the album’s intent, upending any notion that protest music must be austere. With its cinematic layers of boogie and funk, “Strong” carries so much purposeful motion and ornamentation that one might fear the rest of the album could hardly keep up. Yet rather than serve as an unattainable peak, “Strong” proves to be a statement of purpose that sets the tone for everything that follows. The song’s very excess of energy—its booming bassline, Nile Rodgers-esque guitar riffs, and even a breakdown inspired by Brazilian batucada percussion—promises an album brimming with movement. Indeed, Untitled (Rise) delivers on that promise, trading the mournful atmospheres of its predecessor (Untitled (Black Is)) for something more energized and confrontational. SAULT stride forward “toward the horizon” with defiant joy, daring us to follow.
Twelve weeks earlier, SAULT had released Untitled (Black Is) on Juneteenth 2020 in the heat of global protests. That album was a cathartic outpouring of sorrow and militancy, directly responding to the murders of George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, Ahmaud Arbery, and too many others. If Black Is was a soundtrack to collective grief and resistance, then Untitled (Rise) is a cautious celebration—a record that works to heal and uplift Black lives and culture. The two albums are companion pieces in theme, but Rise manifests a brighter determination. Its very title becomes a motif of uplift: across interludes and songs, the word “rise” is sung, spoken, even chanted like an incantation from beginning to end. In the album’s early moments, a brief interlude actually greets a new day—“Rise and shine,” a gentle voice seems to suggest—using the word as a morning salutation to a child. It’s a tender scene that plants the seed of the album’s rallying cry. As the record progresses, that seed grows into a rousing refrain: rise. By the end, “rise” has transformed into a full-on call to action, a mobilizing force that unites the album’s songs of protest and perseverance.
From the opening blast of “Strong,” SAULT make clear that movement—physical, emotional, spiritual—is their weapon against oppression. Inflo’s production is dense with rhythm and groove, but never aimless; every drum fill and bass thump carries purpose. Over his foundation, Cleo Sol and Kid Sister entwine their voices into what feels like a communal voice of resistance. On “Strong,” their vocals ascend in soulful exhortation, “ardent and intertwined,” reinforcing the song’s central idea: that moving your body can be an act of defiance. “We’re moving forward tonight… we want better tonight,” they declare, lyrics that double as both a dancefloor mantra and a statement of intent. This dual nature—joyous on the surface, urgent underneath—pervades the entire album. Inflo’s minimal-funk arrangements and the singers’ heartfelt refrains turn protest into something you can feel physically, whether through a tapping foot or a raised fist.
The album’s subsequent tracks meet it with ease. “Fearless,” coming right after, rides a supremely funky mid-tempo groove accented by flurries of disco strings. The title suggests bold confidence, and the chorus urges “be fearless” in the face of adversity. Yet there’s complexity beneath the exuberance: “Fearless” slips in notes of unease amid its boogie strut, the sweeping strings conveying anxiety as much as excitement. “And it hurts on the inside,” the vocals admit at one point, acknowledging the pain that underlies their defiance. This balance of pleasure and pain—dancing through heartbreak—is something SAULT excel at. They continually remind the listener that even in moments of celebration, the struggle isn’t forgotten.
Nowhere is that duality more apparent than on “I Just Want to Dance.” On its face, this song is exactly what its title promises: an infectious dance track that melds high-velocity UK soul with the rolling thunder of batucada percussion. A limber bass line and a driving beat invite the listener to move without inhibition. Cleo Sol’s voice floats over the top, singing the refrain “I just want to dance, dance, dance…” with the yearning of someone desperate for release. But SAULT have more on their mind than escapism. Midway through “I Just Want to Dance,” the song suddenly skids to a halt, as if a needle were lifted off a record. In that brief, disorienting breakdown—“like someone hitting the stop button on a turntable”—the clatter of drums and synths drops out, leaving space for reality to intrude. The vocalist’s joyous coos turn into a pointed question: “Why do my people always die?” It’s a jarring moment, an explicit reminder of the injustice that even the dancefloor can’t drown out. When the beat kicks back in, slightly out of sync before finding its footing, the listener is pulled back into the groove—but not without absorbing the song’s sobering message. “I Just Want to Dance” transforms physical release into resistance, making the act of dancing both a refuge and a form of protest. In SAULT’s world, to dance is not to forget, but to survive.
The “undaunted spirit” unleashed by these opening salvos courses through Untitled (Rise) in a variety of forms. SAULT are as comfortable crafting silky retro-soul as they are pounding out militant funk, and they use that range to channel a spectrum of emotions from righteous anger to uplift. Several tracks center on percussion and group vocals—the sounds of many hearts beating as one—to convey communal defiance. “Son Shine,” for instance, rides on a breezy gospel-boogie riff, its melody warm and sunny, yet its purpose pointed. Over a slinking ‘80s-style funk groove, a choir-like ensemble sings a “devastating group hook” that celebrates Black resilience. “You know that one day/Things have to change,” one line goes, blending optimism with fatigue. The homophone in its title (“Son Shine” evoking sunshine) suggests a new dawn led by the next generation—a subtle tie to the album’s theme of raising up children in hope.
“Free,” meanwhile, is a crackling funk eruption, perhaps the album’s most direct statement of defiance. The rhythm section hits with a hard, syncopated stomp as the singers proclaim freedom with an intensity that borders on ecstatic. It’s the sound of breaking chains through sheer groove: heavy bass, crackling snare, and voices united in a shout of liberation. Where “Son Shine” feels like a communal prayer, “Free” feels like a street rally—different tones, same goal of empowerment.
On “Street Fighter” and “The Beginning & The End,” percussion becomes outright weaponized. These two songs land like “highly percussive combat dances,” thumping and clattering as movements in a rhythmic battle. “Street Fighter” packs a Motown-esque punch beneath its title’s combative metaphor—driving bass, handclaps, and a stomping beat that wouldn’t sound out of place in a 1960s soul revue. The vibe is upbeat and almost festive, a party jam on the surface, but listen closely and you’ll hear calls to action embedded in the chants. It’s classic SAULT strategy: sugarcoat the message in such infectious rhythms that you find yourself singing along to rebellion.
“The Beginning & The End,” by contrast, takes a more experimental approach. It is sparser and more hypnotic, built around a relentless drum cadence and chanted refrains. Vocally, it’s delivered almost like a rallying speech at a protest, complete with responses echoing like a crowd in agreement. The chorus arrives as a chopped-up, sampled mantra, reinforcing the track’s quasi-ritual feel. In its final lines, the singers proclaim: “We shall reclaim our joy/We shall remuster our strength… We shall rise/As it was in the beginning, so too it shall be in the end.” This is Untitled (Rise)’s mission distilled: after generations of suffering—“millennia bathed in the tears of a thousand ancestors” precedes that line—Black people will reclaim their joy and triumph as they did in the beginning. It reads like a Biblical incantation of resilience. Set against thunderous percussion, those words feel like a prophecy delivered over a drumline—the sort of thing you could imagine shouted through a bullhorn at a demonstration, or sung by determined voices linking arms.
For all its emphasis on rhythmic momentum, Untitled (Rise) is unafraid to drop the tempo and put uncomfortable truths front and center. Nowhere is this more evident than on “Uncomfortable,” a song that pointedly lives up to its title. Over a sparse, slinking soul-jazz groove, Cleo Sol delivers some of the album’s most searing lyrics in a cool, unflinching tone. The music is restrained—just a lazy bass line, a shimmer of cymbal, maybe an electric piano comping lightly—creating a quiet space for hard questions. “Uncomfortable” plays like an open letter to those who refuse to confront systemic racism. “Maybe you’re uncomfortable with the fact we’re waking up,” Sol muses in a honeyed voice that barely conceals the steel underneath. Then the questions land like a challenge: “Why do you keep shooting us? How do you turn hate to love?” These lines, delivered over a subdued beat, strike with force. The song’s gentle sound contrasts with the rawness of the inquiry, making the listener sit in that discomfort and really hear it.
It’s one of SAULT’s quietest numbers, but also one of its most confrontational—proof that resistance can be just as powerful in a whisper as in a shout. By pulling back on the instrumental fireworks here, Inflo lets the message cut through. “Uncomfortable” forces the album’s mostly Western audience to face themselves in the mirror: if the groove makes you sway, the words should make you squirm. The band leaves those pointed questions hanging in the air, unanswered, because there is no easy answer. In the context of such a rhythm-driven album, this hushed moment of reckoning lands like a climax.
Between these full-length songs, SAULT weave in interludes that are anything but filler. The interludes are almost as weighty as the songs, reinforcing and sharpening the album’s themes. Each has its own purpose. “Rise” (track 3), the brief spoken-word piece, warmly welcomes the listener (and, in the album’s narrative, a child) to rise at the start of a new day. That one little word—rise—resonates through the entire album, reappearing as a mantra of empowerment. Later interludes adopt a more militant tone. “Rise Intently” (track 7) sounds like a snippet of a civil rights rally or a military drill. Over marching snares, voices chant in unison, angrily detailing police brutality: “Made my brother choke/This here ain’t no joke… They ain’t saving lives.” The cadence-call style gives it a visceral punch; you can practically see synchronized steps moving to the chant.
On “You Know It Ain’t” (track 10), the group turns its ire toward hypocrisy. In what starts as a facetious, conversational tone, Kid Sister delivers a caustic upbraiding of performative allyship—calling out those self-congratulatory “allies” whose support is more fashion than conviction. (One biting line alludes to the trope of a white liberal claiming “I would have voted for Obama a third time,” skewering that brand of self-satisfied wokeness.) Another interlude, “No Black Violins in London,” addresses the absurd, insidious prejudice behind something as innocent as a Black artist playing the violin—and the tendency of some to call the police at the mere sight of Black people enjoying life. In these vignettes, SAULT broadens the album’s conversation, bringing in spoken voices to articulate what the songs sometimes leave implicit. The effect is a many-voiced chorus of Black voices, moods, and perspectives.
All of these threads—the joyous grooves, the furious chants, the intimate reflections—converge in the album’s devastating finale, “Little Boy.” After the flurry of rhythms and messages that precede it, “Little Boy” arrives as a quiet epilogue, a soulful lullaby that carries the weight of generations. Over a slow, wistful waltz of piano chords and gentle funk undercurrents, Cleo Sol sings directly to a young Black boy. The mood at first is tender and almost dreamy; a warm, wriggling bass and plaintive ‘70s-style keys give the track a nostalgic, comforting feel. It sounds, in the opening bars, like the kind of song a loving mother might hum to her child at bedtime. But, as often with SAULT, there’s more beneath the surface. The lyrics soon reveal the painful truths the singer must one day impart to the child. “Little boy, little boy, when you get older, you can ask me all the questions,” Sol sings softly, “and I’ll tell you the truth about the boys in blue.” The euphemism is gentle—“boys in blue”—but the meaning is clear. She’s referring to the police, those ostensibly protective figures who, for Black children, often pose a lethal threat.
In this lullaby, the singer promises not to shield the child from reality: when he’s old enough, she will explain why he must be cautious, why simply existing in his skin might attract unjust violence. The very need for such a lullaby is heartbreaking. Children—Black children especially—shouldn’t have to worry about these things. Yet innocence here is fragile and temporary. “Little Boy” captures that cruel truth. The song is about protecting the child’s youth as long as possible, knowing the world will eventually force bitter knowledge upon him. Each verse edges that innocence closer to its end. “When you’re searching for the answers and the lost truth for those who look like you,” Sol sings, hinting at the history of erased and distorted truths Black children eventually uncover. In the bridge, she offers a kind of spiritual armor: “Heaven’s angels are shining down on us… God has chosen us,” the song reassures, repeating the line as if to ward off despair. It’s a gospel touch, offering hope that even as pain “won’t go away,” a divine love still holds them chosen and cherished.
Musically, “Little Boy” remains deceptively soothing even as the lyrics cut deeper. The piano-led melody stays sweet, Sol’s delivery stays lilting, and a children’s choir enters to harmonize the refrain softly. The use of a children’s chorus is a masterstroke: those innocent voices singing “Heaven’s angels… God has chosen us” multiply the song’s emotional impact. As the arrangement narrows to piano alone, it’s as if we witness the instant when childhood innocence meets the harsh reality of the outside world. The sweetness of the music is countered by the righteous anger embedded in the words, creating an ending that is both beautiful and devastating. One can’t help but feel a swell of sorrow listening to “Little Boy”—sorrow for the fact that such a song is necessary at all, that Tamir Rice was only 12 and never got the chance to grow older. In its final moments, Untitled (Rise) forces us to confront that sorrow, even as it lovingly addresses the next generation with hope and guidance.
Taken as a whole, Untitled (Rise) crowns an almost unbelievable creative run. Consider SAULT’s output leading up to it: 5, 7, Untitled (Black Is), and Untitled (Rise) all arrived within a span of roughly 16 months. In that time, this collective—helmed by Inflo, with Cleo Sol and Kid Sister as primary co-creators—generated about three hours of music that is diverse in approach, recombinant in its fusion of styles, and unflinching in its pro-Black message. There’s remarkably little excess or padding across those hours, which speaks to SAULT’s focus and vision. The pace is staggering, but even more impressive is the power: four albums of such consistent quality and depth in such a short time is a feat few artists could match. Untitled (Rise) feels like the culmination of that burst of creativity. It takes the intense protest of Black Is and magnifies it with more infectious rhythms and a sharper edge.
In the context of SAULT’s prodigious sequence of releases, Untitled (Rise) reads like a definitive statement. Galvanized by the urgency of the times, the group blends funk, soul, disco, gospel, and Afrobeat, weaving in spoken word and chants to distill a wide span of the Black diaspora’s musical heritage into a single, potent narrative. More importantly, it carries forward the tradition of music as resistance. From the disco-funk protest of “Strong” to the soul lullaby of “Little Boy,” Untitled (Rise) embodies the idea that movement—whether dancing in joy or marching in anger—can be a pathway to liberation. It’s a record that makes you want to move your feet even as it moves you to tears, that dares you to feel and think at the same time. By combining Inflo’s genre-blurring production with Cleo Sol’s and Kid Sister’s writing and vocals, SAULT created a work that is both celebration and confrontation. Untitled (Rise) is a beacon of hope and defiance, a rallying cry that echoes long after the final note. In years to come, when we look back at the music that defined 2020’s cry for justice, this album will surely stand tall. SAULT have given us an opus of purposeful movement, a polyrhythmic call to arms that urges: rise, dance, resist—and never, ever give up.