Black Sherif - The Villain I Never Was (LP)

Black Sherif’s debut album, The Villain I Never Was, lands like a diary cracked open mid-journey. Released on 6 October 2022 through Blacko Management and EMPIRE, it catches the Ghanaian star at full sprint, trying to make sense of the speed. He came in hot off a run of essential singles, and the album doesn’t temper that energy so much as frame it, giving the restless voice behind “Second Sermon” room to breathe, pray and reckon.

If there was a global entry point, it was “Kwaku The Traveller”. Produced by Joker Nharnah, the track’s first line became an instant street proverb: “Of course I fucked up, who never fuck up, hands in the air.” It wasn’t just catchy, it felt lived. The song went on to top charts across the region and even hit No. 1 on the global Shazam chart in April 2022, which speaks to how far his voice carried. The album sets that moment among a broader narrative of hunger and consequence. Where “Kwaku” throws its hands up to the sky, other tracks circle back to the ground, to the corners and courtyards that shaped him.

Part of the magic here is how Black Sherif holds space for both Ghanaian drill and older textures. You can hear the pull of Kumasi’s Asakaa scene in the 808s, then suddenly a highlife-leaning guitar figure softens the frame. He moves between Twi and English like it’s a single language, flipping from confessional lines to rallying cries. “Soja” arrived a few weeks before the album and flagged that duality nicely. It’s a warning wrapped as a pep talk, heavy with the pressure of eyes on him, but it’s sung with a hand on your shoulder.

He rarely names places without intent, so when a track like “Konongo Zongo” turns toward his hometown in the Ashanti Region, it isn’t nostalgia. It’s a study in how a place can love you and doubt you at the same time. “Oh Paradise” feels even closer to the bone. He has spoken about the loss behind it, and you can hear the ache in the way he stretches the hook, letting melody carry what words can’t quite handle. Then the temperature lifts with “Oil In My Head”, where the drums stomp and the ad-libs grin. He’s never shy about faith, or luck, or the fact that both might desert you when you need them most.

The sequencing pulls you through that push and pull. Early on, he lets the room go quiet and leans on raw vocal takes, then the middle stretch snaps back with tighter rhythms and bigger hooks. The Burna Boy feature on the “Second Sermon” remix works as a bridge between eras, nodding to the spark that took Black Sherif beyond Ghana while keeping the urgency intact. Nothing here feels like a graft; the blend is his, and it’s why he felt new even to listeners already deep into Afrobeats and drill.

By the time the cycle around this album wrapped, he had pocketed major recognition at home, including Artiste of the Year at the Vodafone Ghana Music Awards in 2023. Awards only tell part of the story, though. What sticks is the voice. Grainy, elastic, edged with smoke, it cuts through big club mixes and small-room speakers alike. On quiet nights in a Melbourne record store, I’ve seen people stop mid-crate when it comes on, even before they know the name. That’s a useful test.

As a piece of storytelling, The Villain I Never Was works because it lets in contradiction. He’s both the penitent narrator of “Kwaku The Traveller” and the steely operator of “45”, both the kid from Konongo and the headline act racing between festivals. The production team keeps the palette tight, leaving space for his phrasing, and the monochrome cover art suits the mood, a stark portrait that suggests the album’s focus on face-to-face confession.

If you’re the sort who lines up albums by feeling, this sits near the records you play when you need resolve. And if you’re hunting for Black Sherif vinyl, keep an eye out, because The Villain I Never Was vinyl would be a weapon on a good system, all sub-bass and grit. Plenty of folks try to buy Black Sherif records online already, and I’m often asked about Black Sherif albums on vinyl by customers picking up new Afrobeats arrivals. It’s the sort of title that would move fast in the vinyl records Australia scene, whether you’re shopping local or visiting your favourite Melbourne record store on a Saturday.

Debuts don’t need to be definitive, but this one feels like a line in the sand. It captures a young artist charging forward, head high, heart open, trusting that the truth of his story will carry. So far, it has.