This profile was supposed to open with a triumphant anecdote about Yaya Bey performing at Governors Ball earlier this month—a vivid snapshot of her post-show glow, maybe a quip about her energy onstage. But the weather had other plans, and her set was abruptly canceled on day two due to torrential rain, a frustrating yet all-too-familiar industry reality for independent artists.
So instead, we met at a laid-back café in Brooklyn. Over sips of boba and bursts of laughter, Bey spoke with clear-eyed candor about do it afraid, her sixth overall project, and the closing chapter in what she calls a personal trilogy.
The album is a simmering, soul-drenched meditation on joy, grief, and self-preservation—equal parts house party and heart check. Bey’s music has always been soul-rooted but genre-fluid, winding between jazz, R&B, reggae, hip-hop, house, and experimental textures without ever losing its grounding in her lived experience. Her 2022 breakthrough Remember Your North Star was both balm and battle cry, balancing sultry grooves with searing honesty about misogynoir, heartbreak, and personal liberation. The critical acclaim it received cemented her as one of the most compelling voices in contemporary R&B, if you could even box her in like that. A year later, she followed it up with Ten Fold, an album rich with spiritual inquiry, vulnerable lyricism, and head-nodding sonic choices.
With do it afraid, she’s no longer just reflecting—she’s pressing forward. The album leans deeper into soul while embracing her longtime love of house music. The result is more vibrant and rhythm-driven than past releases, yet it retains the emotional gravity that defines her catalog. Some tracks feel like late-night talks with your oldest friend, others pulse like an urgent invitation to the dance floor. It’s a record that dares to celebrate softness and survival at once.
“My albums are always very nuanced in emotion,” she tells me. “They go up, they go down. But [on] this record, I made the talking point that this is not about trauma, because I was just tired of going through that.”
That transparency has always been part of Bey’s artistic appeal. She’s not selling you a fantasy—she’s offering a mirror. Her music, which she describes as an evolving practice, has followed her from DIY beginnings to international stages. And yet, the industry still treats her like an outsider.
“Two things can exist at the same time. With the last album, my dad got [sick] around that time, but it was also a time where I was experiencing a breakthrough in my career, and it was the first time that I could make a living off of my art and travel. And, like, I’m more so just saying, like, I want to be able to make art about my life as it is. As messy as it is. As nuanced as it is. Because that’s reality,” Bey said. “And I don’t want to be white people’s trauma porn because they need that from me.”
She laughs dryly when asked if she thinks she deserves to be bigger, saying there’s not a desire to be a pop star per se, but she would like her career to be financially sustainable at the very least.
Bey’s frustration with the industry is palpable, not just in her words, but in her delivery, weary and resolute. “I don’t need to be rich. But I would like to be able to comfortably pay for a therapist. I would like to be able to pay my band and pay myself and take a break.”
Photo by Christine Forbes
Her breakdown of the music economy is as sobering as it is revealing. “If I play a show for $30,000 and I gotta fly myself and the band out, house everybody, pay agency and manager fees, taxes—I’m ultimately making what the average person is making, but I’m making it with big bills,” she says. “I live in a one-bedroom apartment in Silver Spring, Maryland to keep shit in perspective.” Bey says the quest to be bigger is really a quest to survive. “I’m in this precarious spot where it’s like, I can go back and not do this full-time and work a job. Or this can be my job. But if this is going to be my job, I need a raise.”
At its core, Do It Afraid is about surrender—and the courage to keep showing up. “I was feeling everything,” she says about creating the album. “And a willingness to surrender to that. That’s a new thing in my life. When my dad died, I learned this shit is not forever. Life is highs and lows. You cannot live this life without pain, and you will not live this life without joy. I’ve been trying to find the courage to face that. And that’s what the album is.”
“All my records have dance songs on them; all my records go through a multitude of emotions. But everyone’s just hyper-focused on trauma,” she said.
Still, survival is a recurring theme. And so is legacy. She speaks of music as not just craft, but as lifeblood tied deeply to her heritage.
“I’m a multi-ethnic Black person. I’m West Indian and I’m Black American. One side of my family’s from Barbados, the other side is from South Carolina. South Carolina and Barbados are connected via the slave trade. My grandmother raised me off that Southern shit.” It’s not just soul or R&B for Bey—it’s the entire Black musical diaspora. “Soca is like soul and calypso coming together. I think about R&B and the blues and gospel. It’s all I know. Frankie Beverly is my favorite musician. I like Black women with stories. Mary J. Blige. Phyllis Hyman. That’s my shit.”
Bey says she’s eyeing a break after this album cycle and tour—a chance to slow down, breathe, and reclaim some stillness. “I miss waking up in my own house,” she says with a wistful sigh. “I want to take a break for those reasons—or find better ways to do this shit. Artists say they’re looking for a breakthrough—for that reason. So maybe I can stay home for a month and recoup.”
Even in her weariness, she circles back to the music—what it’s given her, and what she continues to give through it. “It’s so important to Blackness. It’s in how we walk, how we move—it’s everything,” she says. “Soul music is at the core. You can never disregard R&B.”
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