For years, Leikeli47 wielded her mask like a mirror. A music industry enigma, she moved like an emissary on the low, revealing more about Black beauty, vulnerability, grit and glory than many artists who've laid it all bare. She wore the mask — and her heart on her sleeve — so we didn't have to. And she represented us lovely. At the beauty shop getting a wash & set. At the nail salon filling those acrylics. Even in the barber's chair getting her cornrows shaped-up and snatched to the gods. Her veiled appearance doubled as an avatar for our collective dreams and screams, while resisting our reflex to judge her music at face value alone. An ironic stroke of genius if ever there was. Yet it also made her hard to see. Invisibility colored her indivisible from her tribe, but sometimes we didn't know where exactly we ended and Leikeli47 began. Her music rendered that line between the communal and the personal imperceptible. Magically so.
Then, after three studio albums worth of genre-fluid badassery, came the big reveal: Nearly a minute into the video for "450" — the lead single from her new, independently released album Lei Keli ft. 47 / For Promotional Use Only — she removes the bandana obscuring her face and blesses us with her countenance for the first time. But this isn't just about aesthetics. It's a spiritual reckoning. Across the album and the conversation that follows, she reflects on the dualities that have shaped her journey: Lei Keli vs. 47, visibility vs. protection, fear vs. faith. She speaks candidly about the mask that once gave her freedom, the major-label machinery she outgrew and the quiet battles she fought on her way to creative autonomy.
"I started looking up a few years ago and I just felt stuck," she tells me, recounting the process that eventually led to her severing contractual ties with RCA/Sony. "I've asked for a release over the years, but it didn't happen. But once I got closer to fulfilling my terms, I asked for another release and it wasn't easy but we came to an agreement where it was okay. So we just parted ways. That was that. Nothing salacious. Nothing crazy. I just felt like they did all that they could for me." For Leikeli, growth has not only meant unmasking, but also reckoning with an industry that often promotes visibility and marketability over artistry. Especially when the artist in question defies containment while spinning the block from boom-bap to ballroom to blues and back. Yet, she holds no grudges against her former label partner. To the contrary, "they're really great at what they do," she says. "I'm a quirky girl with New York and Virginia roots. Just comes out of nowhere, in a mask, serving you up a pot of gumbo. All these sounds. You're like: Wait! Whoa! Ahhh! I get it; it could be a lot. And it could be a lot to figure out how to dish to the masses. Again, that's on them. I don't see it that way. I'm like: We got the gumbo. They got the bowls. Just pour it in [and] keep the line going."
But the business dealings have also helped her push past her internal limitations. "I'm a different person," she says, shedding fresh light on a process of self-discovery that's gifted her with a new appreciation for the challenging environment she survived and the apparent superpowers she hid as a child to keep from being outcast. "You understand 47 in the mask, but it's time to get to know Lei Keli out of it."
Now that the mask is off, she's thrown open a whole new window to her soul — and ours.
This interview was edited for length and clarity.
Rodney Carmichael: The title of your new album — Lei Keli ft. 47 / For Promotional Use Only — is so rich. It almost feels like you're drawing a line between your personal self and your persona. How did you even come to recognize the separation or delineation between the two?
Leikeli47: Well, that's kind of how it started. I never spoke about it, but that's pretty much what it was: You have Leikeli and you have 47. Also, not in a cocky way, but can't nobody see me. That's just how I feel. Like you hear a lot of artists say: The only competition is myself. I only see me. I don't even see that. [Laughs]. It was always in the making and a long time coming for me to get here and to make it very clear that Leikeli is this; 47 is that. I feel like I came off as my most vulnerable on this project. I innovated the space that I truly love and will never run away from — which is always that boom bap, the ballroom, just the hood. I represent that underdog. I represent that underground with that sprinkle of glamour. I love being ghetto fabulous. I was very grateful to be able to showcase Leikeli's vision and her love for melody. And then 47's grit, her hunger and her 'I don't give two F's what you have to say about me' persona. I just had fun mixing those two together.
The ironic thing about your masked era is how good you were at unmasking us — as Black folk — the entire time. Our beauty, our strength, even our pain and prejudices. When was the moment that you knew it was time for you to remove the mask, and not just physically but metaphorically?
I wait for God's voice in everything that I do. What's crazy is I was supposed to take [the mask] off a few years ago when He told me. A lot of things were happening in life. We had a pandemic, we had this, we had that. And one thing I pride myself on is obeying God. So I was just going through my process of removing and peeling back myself, layer by layer, as much as I could. For me, it was just hearing His voice and moving according to His direction. Because the mask, like you said, it just represented us so well.
What did the mask do for you?
That mask just showed me so much freedom. I am, to the core of me, very introverted. When you see 47 in that mask, you think she's just a bubbly, lively spirit that probably was the prom queen and all that. I grew up quiet and shy, not knowing how to connect with people and not having many friends — but still accepted in our spaces and still living my good Black life. Just having a good time. But once I put it on, it introduced me to just so much more. It allowed me to be open. It allowed me to speak freely. It allowed me to do so much that I was fearful of doing — and didn't even know I was fearful of doing — outside of it. It was such a blessing to have. But it was also so weird because when God told me to put it on I felt like What? We were in this era of 'Look at me! Look at me!' Plus, I'm a girl. And you know we like to get cute and all of that. But I was very clear that I had a different purpose and a different mission within this art space and within Black music and culture. It's gone through so many ebbs and flows over the years and I just knew that I had to be a part of the cloth that stood for something. If that meant that my grow was going to be a slow-grow, because I'm the girl in a mask, so be it. If I'm going to miss out on opportunities because I'm the girl in the mask, so be it.
The mask really helped me. I found myself in so many areas and in so many places in my life. I got to know myself through that mask. Like my fears. That word fear, it's such a weird and scary word. And I like to be tough. Growing up, I always felt like I'm not scared of nothing. I'm a fearless flyer. But in a lot of ways, I really did move in fear. And once I woke up to that, I started healing that side. I started facing that side. And I started whipping that side's tail. Now I feel like I'm at a place in my life where I can say, 100 percent, fear does not live in this dojo.
If the mask gave you this freedom and this feeling of invincibility, what does choosing to remove it give you?
It's a new beginning for me. That's what it really gives me. Even with stepping out right now, I tell my people I'm not nervous. But I [do] wonder how people are going to react to Lei Keli — the girl outside of [the mask]. Because, again, when I had it on I was living a whole new life. It taught me how to just be personable and connect. So I'm really interested in just getting to know myself in this space outside of the mask. I know who I am away from my world — the world of music and all of this — but I'm really interested and excited to see the journey, the growth and to see how people react to it. I'm always going to be my most authentic self, but at the same time there is a difference. It feels like a fresh start. So I'm excited to merge my world[s]. I'm excited to take the things that I've learned in that mask and bring them to the world outside of the mask. It's two different people, and it's going to be interesting.
It's clear from the new album that you've overcome a lot. Near the end of "Problems," you have this line where you say "My hardship was really heavy blessings." What compelled you to get so personal after keeping so much of your origin story close for so long?
Nina Simone said as artists we have a responsibility to play to the times. And today, it's a lot of craziness going on. But I wanted to be sure that I played on my personal times. Like, Hey guys, this is who I am. This is why I am. And I'm a different person. I don't like to touch too much on family, especially on what some would view negatively. I love thinking over the great stuff. So, I'm originally from Danville and Norfolk. I have roots pretty much all over, because that was just our life. We were privileged to have our great grandparents and our grandparents in our life for a moment. And they introduced us to God and church and stability. It was a blessing. Me and my brother, we were the kids from the projects. I was always somewhere. Growing up, you always had that cousin that had to come stay. I was that cousin. I was the cousin [sleeping] on the pallet. I was the cousin on the couch. I was always the one interrupting the middle of school years and stuff like that. And, again, it's like, why I gotta go through that, God? Why, why, why? But as I look over it now, it's pretty cool. It just was what it was. It was my life. Unfortunately, with that type of lifestyle you don't grow up with best friends. It taught me how to be tough on my own. It also taught me how to stay dependent on God and what really matters in life.
I remember hearing music and thinking, I want to do that for the rest of my life. It was out the womb, from a tiny, tiny, tiny one. I've just never not known sound, color, seeing it, feeling it, tasting it. I didn't have many friends because of it. Because how many kids you know can taste words? That's crazy! How many kids you know that just be like, 'Yo, you ever heard of Terrence Blanchard?!' [Laughs] Like, you can't talk jazz to an 11-year-old. So I stayed to myself. Like, you can't talk Dizzy to somebody that's nine and they just want to skate.
Wait, do you have synesthesia? Is that what it's called?
Yeah, yep. I can taste and I can see.
What exactly can you taste and see?
Sometimes a sound or word can come through and it can feel like — some things can taste like grape. You know, I'm Black. I'm hood. [Laughs] Some things can taste red and feel red. Certain songs can smell like bubblegum to me. It's crazy. Watching The Cosby Show for me was always cosmic because of the jazz element of it. It was just like, Oh my god, this tastes like lemon! Ohh, that's yellow! But you don't know that only you can see that and only you can feel that. Growing up, you think this is just the world of everybody.
So when do you start to realize that you were having a different experience?
I don't know because I kind of held that in. I think when I really started accepting it was out of the eighth grade. I really started coming to terms with it and thinking about it more around that time. That's the coming of age for people, right. Around that time I'm liking boys. I want to have friends. And it's like, Oh Jesus, how do you go to the mall with me?
What does your creative process look like when you're looking back at your past and reevaluating and appreciating it in a way that you hadn't before?
I was still scared to just go for it, as crazy as that is. Once I got to working on this album, I just went into a moment of prayer and [said] "God, just speak. Just talk. Take me away. Remove me. I got this pen in my hand. Let it go. Let it flow." I just started thinking about life and how I grew up and the things I had to endure and why. It was just God revealing to me that, Had I not taken you through that you wouldn't be the person that you are today. And I know sometimes these things are going to hurt and sometimes these things are confusing, but it's there for you to fully depend on Me. When you depend on Me, I got you. I'm going to free you from that pain. I'm going to let you know why you had to stay with your grandmother. Why you grew up in a drug-infested [environment]. And when I look back over all of that and see where I am today, I'm like, Wow. I'm smarter. I'm a lot wiser. I'm not a pushover. What set it off was surrendering. Just surrendering to Him and always remembering that as fun as I can get with these sounds and as free as I can get with these words, it all comes from Him. He is the true author of my story.
Anonymity can give artists a certain superpower — like the ability to observe the world without creating a spectacle. That superpower has always really shown up in your music. Have you thought about what it will be like to create without it?
I haven't. Not at one point. And it's very intentional. With all that I've learned and with all that I've taken in that mask, I have a duty right now to be just as free. And so with that, I can't think. I gotta live and I gotta be that fearless flyer that I spoke about earlier. I can't think about it. The only thing I think about now is glam. I'm like, Wow, I got to have makeup now. This is new. (Laughs) I'm such a low maintenance, ghetto fabulous, hood-tastic, scarf and a mask. But other than that, I can't think. I owe you too much. I owe myself too much. I got to always be ready and prepared and authentic in my heart. And I have to be ready to move from that space for myself and for the people. Let it come. Let's go. I'm excited for this, actually.
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