Tank and the Bangas

For Tank and the Bangas, music is a vessel for unbridled joy and transcendent connection—forces as integral to their essence as their wildly original sound. On their new album The Last Balloon, the New Orleans-bred outfit channel those impulses into something celebratory yet profoundly human, exploring themes of frustration, resilience, and self-realization with equal parts raw emotionality and playful exuberance. A shapeshifting collective helmed by lead singer Tarriona “Tank” Ball and multi-instrumentalist Norman Spence II, the globally beloved group completed the LP after winning a GRAMMY for 2024’s spoken-word powerhouse The Heart, The Mind, The Soul, moving from incendiary poetry to a euphoric collision of soul and hip-hop and forward-thinking R&B. As the final installment in a trilogy of albums that began with 2019’s Green Balloon (a critical triumph that earned them a GRAMMY nomination for Best New Artist), The Last Balloon ultimately solidifies Tank and the Bangas’ legacy as one of modern music’s most steadfast voices of sublime exhilaration.

Executive-produced by their frequent collaborator Austin Brown (Jamila Woods, Masego), The Last Balloon offers up a suite of songs designed to thrive in Tank and the Bangas’ rapturous live set, where unified movement becomes crucial to the show itself. “We’re known for a very interactive experience, so I wanted to get the fans more involved and have even more fun with the crowd,” says Ball. “There’s lots of gang vocals, handclaps, all these intentional moments to let everyone know, ‘This is my part, but your part’s coming up next—so get ready.’” A highly collaborative band whose past work has featured luminaries like Big Freedia, Questlove, and Jill Scott, Tank and the Bangas created The Last Balloon with the help of Iman Omari (a multifaceted musician who’s worked with Kendrick Lamar and Mac Miller), pianist/producer Tane Runo (Brittany Howard, JID), esteemed soul singers Ledisi and Jelly Joseph, and many more. The result: a party-ready extravaganza that provides both ecstatic catharsis and communal elevation.

Mainly recorded at The Complex Studios (an iconic L.A. spot once home to Earth, Wind & Fire), The Last Balloon unfolds in a loosely woven storyline charting a journey from self-doubt and erasure to empowered self-reclamation. On “Ain’t That Deep,” Tank and the Bangas deliver a defiant refusal to let negativity penetrate their world, setting Ball’s larger-than-life vocals against a potent backdrop of hypnotic beats and velvety horns. Sprung from a punchy piano riff spontaneously composed by Spence, “No Invite” arrives as a fantastically explosive takedown of industry gatekeeping and shameless clout-chasing. “There’s a lot of parties and award ceremonies we don’t get invited to, even though we do a lot for our community and should really be welcomed into those spaces,” explains Ball, who conceptualized “No Invite” as a rock-trap track. Next, on “Move,” two-time GRAMMY-winning R&B phenomenon Lucky Daye joins in for a pleading but powerful anthem lit up in lush grooves and jangly guitar tones. “I wrote that song about wanting my partner at the time to move to New Orleans to be closer to me, but you could interpret it as motivation to get moving in general,” says Ball. “I’ve been around people who let Monday go into Friday real quick, so ‘Move’ could be a way of telling yourself, ‘Let me get up, get my body moving, start making things happen for myself before it’s too late.’”

While much of The Last Balloon embodies an electrifying vitality, the album closes out with the spellbinding surrender of “Nighttime”—a slow-burning fever dream where bittersweet reality blurs with the unfettered possibility of imagination. “There’s maybe seven or eight layers of harmonies on that song but there’s still a beautiful simplicity to it,” Spence notes. “It’s one of my favorite songs on the album, because there’s so much space in there.” Elsewhere on the LP, Tank and the Bangas bring their prismatic musicality to tracks like “Honeycomb” (a sensually charged stunner featuring Mississippi-born singer/songwriter Akeem Ali) and “Is It Over?” (an impassioned piece of soul-pop centered on a gorgeously smooth vocal performance from Ball). “It’s a song about getting to a point in a relationship where you don’t know if you should stay or leave, but I put it in the context of people in New Orleans deciding to stay in their homes during a hurricane,” says Ball. “It’s that feeling of knowing something’s coming, something’s in the air, but instead of escaping you make that choice to just hunker down and ride it out.”

The conceptual successor to 2022’s Red Balloon (a GRAMMY nominee for Best Progressive R&B Album), The Last Balloon came to life through the deliberately improvisational process Tank and the Bangas have embraced since first connecting through the New Orleans poetry community in the early 2010s. Though their reach has expanded far beyond those beginnings (thanks in part to their viral breakthrough as winners of NPR’s 2017 Tiny Desk Contest), taking home the Best Spoken Word Poetry Album GRAMMY for The Heart, The Mind, The Soul proved to be a glorious full-circle moment. “Poetry has been such an instrumental part of our career, so it felt right that our first award was in that category,” says Ball. “We were so happy to get that nod from our peers, but at the end of the day what matters most is the love we feel from our fans.” To that end, Tank and the Bangas created The Last Balloon with a palpable sense of responsibility to their audience. “We hear from people who travel from city to city to come see us, who tell us that our music helped them get through hard times in their lives,” says Spence. “We all understand that music has real healing properties, so we make sure to put everything out with care in the hopes that it’ll impact everyone in a positive way.”

As Ball reveals, The Last Balloon signals both the end of an era and the dawning of a bold new phase for the band. “I called the album The Last Balloon because I didn’t want anyone asking us, ‘When’s Purple Balloon coming?’” she says. “It’s the end of the balloons; we’re moving into a new space now.” And as they step into their next chapter, Tank and the Bangas continue to tap into a creative energy that’s only grown more vibrant over time. “Lately it’s almost like the ideas coming out of thin air, and I’m just excited to keep making more music,” says Spence. “We’re working with new people and cultivating new sounds, and it feels like we’re more open than we’ve ever been,” adds Ball. “What we’ve learned over the years is that even though people can’t always categorize our sound, they’re always able to describe how the music makes them feel. So we’re gonna keep on changing and evolving, but we’re always gonna give you that same feeling of joy. That’s a DNA marker for sure.”

Richmond, Virginia-based artist McKinley Dixon has always used his music as a tool for healing, exploring, and unpacking the Black experience in order to create stories for others like him. On his previous two self-released albums, Dixon’s songs looked at concepts ranging from self-love to police brutality, and the complex trauma Black people navigate collectively and as individuals. For My Mama And Anyone Who Look Like Her, Dixon’s debut album on Spacebomb, is the culmination of a journey where heartbreak and introspection challenged him to adapt new ways of communicating physically and mentally, as well as across time and space.
 
"Black people have an ability to talk about the concept of home—meaning communities, blocks, hoods—from a really thorough place because of those concepts' connection to Blackness. That ability, and sort of already internalized and in place language, allows for the speaker (rapper) to exist in their current setting, while also being able to reminisce, dissect, and discuss their past,” says Dixon explaining the idea of rap as a form of time travel. “If time is ‘non-linear,’ what is stopping me from going back to process the past? I am here now, having learned what I have, and because of that I am able to go back and figure out patterns and trajectories to see better how I've gotten to this point. And to see what I can do differently for the community and people around me in the future to make where we're going, together, better. For me and other Black folks, when you hear rap music, you are then able to take those moments in the music and apply them to your own life and patterns. It's a glimpse into the worlds of others that look like you, and it allows you to feel a sense of belonging—and in a way, a sense of home. Rap music has a very sturdy trajectory of 'I want to be somewhere else, one day I'll be somewhere else, and I’ll take my whole community with me.'"
 
This unique concept of musical time travel elevates the storytelling on For My Mama And Anyone Who Look Like Her as it moves through different stages of Dixon unpacking and processing his surroundings. The new album, which is the third piece of a trilogy, finds Dixon working through inner demons, complex relationships with religion, and trying to make sense of mortality for Black peoples. This winding road of turmoil is only amplified by a deeper pain he’s still finding the language to work through: in 2018, his best friend was tragically killed. In the context of just being Black and living in this world, “musical time travel” has become a way for Dixon to dissect traumatic timelines and pave his own road to processing, healing, and survival. “The album is me processing for myself now, and for my younger self,” explains Dixon. “It’s also a conversation to my homie who died, who didn’t have access to the same things as I did—didn’t have access to music, therapy, books.” With Black death constantly happening on a news cycle, within neighborhoods, and within families, processing has never had a specific start and end point. These 11 songs are a way for Dixon to cycle through fragmented memories and unclosed chapters, and begin to reconcile where these stories of racism, death, and trauma live on the new timeline he’s created for himself.
 
“The language accessibility aspect of this project draws right back to communication and connecting,” Dixon explains. “I think about the messaging, and how this can be a way for another Black person, someone who looks like me, to listen to this and process the past. Everything I've learned about communication for this album culminates with this bigger question about time. Is time linear when you’re still healing and processing? Westerners look at time travel as something to conquer or control—it's a colonizer mindset. That’s ignoring how time travel can be done through stories and non-verbal communication, and doesn't acknowledge how close indigenous people are to the land and the connections groups have because they’ve existed somewhere for so long. Storytelling is time travel, it's taking the listener to that place. Quick time travel. Magic. These raps I’m making are no different than stories told around the campfire. They elongate the culture.”
 
The origins of For My Mama And Anyone Who Look Like Her go back almost three years, beginning with a song written in 2017 called “Chain Sooo Heavy.” Having worked with over 30 instrumentalists on his last record, Dixon formed a more solid band to bring this album to life. Never relying solely on beats, Dixon continues to tap into a hybrid of jazz and rap, pulling in an array of piercing strings, soulful horns, percussion, and angelic vocalists throughout the album—plus features by Micah James, Lord Jah-Monte Ogbon, Pink Siifu, and more. Jazz instrumentals add a level of uncertainty, with the sounds and shifts evoking a lot of emotion and vulnerability. It’s an energy he describes as “Pre-Kendrick Lamar To Pimp A Butterfly,” the era when rap adopted more live instrumentation.
 
When Dixon is trying to find the words to describe a moment, he draws inspiration directly from literature. “Called for Jesus/Now I’m gonna curse his daddy,” from “B.B.N.E.”, was inspired by renowned novelist Toni Morrison, an influence who shows up throughout the album. “I’ve got so many of her books. Reading her work gives me the language needed to access this version of musical time travel I’ve been talking about. I’ll open up a Toni Morrison book, read it, and try to find sentences where she’s trying to describe what I’m feeling and I’ll go from there.”
 
“Bless the Child” evokes the strongest sense of Dixon tracing patterns through time. Shifting through three beat switches, it’s a figurative shrine of past thoughts and feelings around his friend’s untimely passing. “The tone with the beat switch allows me to shift from being in the past with these memories, to the present right now where I’m very conflicted, and ends in the future with me, the artist, processing it all,” he explains. “The song is a literal translation of my homie’s passing and how I’m processing it. It’s a mixture of sentiments and asking myself what it means to ‘do it for them’ at this point.”
 
For My Mama And Anyone Who Look Like Her challenges Black people to revisit more than one timeline and question everything they’ve been taught about processing grief in order to rebuild their present and future selves. There’s no definitive end to the darkness and trauma of the past, but this album is a stepping stone in Dixon’s pursuit of moving forward, and being a voice for Black people still learning how to advocate for themselves.
 
“The best way to sum up this album is: I was sad, I was mad, and now I’m alive,” Dixon explains. “These things I talk about on the record have had harmful and brilliant effects on my timeline, and have forced me to be cognizant of the fact that living is complex. Rap has allowed me the language to communicate, and be someone who can communicate with people from all over. Knowing how far I’ve come, I think people will find trust in the message I’m sending.”
-Max Mohenu