90 Minutes with Shaboozey
Twenty-nine-year-old Shaboozey is having an undeniable year. A profile-raising guest appearance on Beyoncé's bone-rattling Cowboy Carter LP, a single that doesn't just hit but catapults to the top of the charts and then stays there—“A Bar Song (Tipsy)” just logged its eighth week at number one on the Billboard Hot 100—and starting next week, a sold out tour. In May, I saw him perform at Baby’s Alright in Brooklyn. As soon as he grabbed the mic, the room seemed to cave in. The venue, which fits just shy of 300 people, was wall-to-wall with bodies, but no one cared. In fact, everyone seemed to love it. When he returns to New York City this fall, he'll headline two shows that'll see him sell tickets to ten times as many people. In July, Esquire met up with Shaboozey to do some record shopping.
July 29th: Record Shopping, 1:30 P.M.
“That’s the greatest album to ever exist,” says Shaboozey as he spots a copy of Pet Sounds by The Beach Boys. We’re at RPM Underground, a record shop in Midtown, Manhattan, and he’s found the LP in the classics section. His hand traces over the cover for a moment and then keeps digging through the collection, intrigued by what he might find next.
As we wander through the aisles, Shaboozey (real name Collins Obinna Chibueze) flips through LPs and calls out familiar artists. There’s Coldplay, Sam Cooke, Michael Jackson, Whitney Houston, Billie Eilish, and The Beatles. Anyone who’s anyone has a record here and, as we turn the corner, he realizes he does too. A copy of Beyoncé's Cowboy Carter, where he appears on two tracks as a vocalist, is displayed on the wall, wrapped in tight, untouched cellophane. “I should probably get that,” he jokes.
Over the past decade, Shaboozey has carved out his own space within the music industry, putting down roots in the rarely explored intersection between rap and country. Both genres are rooted in Black culture—with country music tracing back to the transatlantic slave trade and rap originating in the Bronx during the 1970s—but they rarely overlap in ways that work. Despite the success of several singles (like Lil Nas X’s “Old Town Road,” Blanco Brown’s “The Git Up,” and Florida Georgia Line’s “Cruise” featuring Nelly) few musicians have succeeded in maintaining a country-rap career.
Shaboozey’s first public attempt at fusing the two genres came with his debut album, Lady Wrangler, in 2018. He got more adventurous in 2022 with his trap-laced second record, Cowboy’s Live Forever, Outlaws Never Die, but his true break came this year thanks to Queen B. Back in March, he was featured on Cowboy Carter—the second entry in Beyoncé's ongoing Renaissance project and a defacto middle finger to the Music City industry “purists” who refused to welcome her to the genre, even booing her appearance at the 2016 Country Music Awards.
While creating Cowboy Carter, Beyoncé collaborated with a wide array of musicians (Black, white, young, and old) to prove that country music is not a fortress built around white artists, generally male, wearing tight jeans and backward baseball caps. (You know the type.) Shaboozey's success chips away at those same walls. His husky voice appears on the tracks “Spaghetti” and “Sweet Honey Buckin.” It sounds natural. Fluid—like country songs were always meant to include a rap verse. Maybe they were. This year, Bey and Boozey became the first two Black artists to lead the Hot Country Songs chart back-to-back.
Really, the duets came as a surprise, he says. A member of Beyoncé's team heard Shaboozey perform his then-unreleased single, “A Bar Song (Tipsy),” at a showcase in January 2024 and asked if he’d be interested in working on her next album. He said yes (obviously), recorded a couple of verses, and scored Beyoncé’s approval.
The process was simple but dizzying. It all happened so fast. He can’t remember who he told first. “Maybe my managers?” he wonders aloud. “Probably my mom at some point.”
Shaboozey wasn’t sure he’d be on the record until right before it was released. When the news broke, his phone lit up with texts. “Everybody kind of hit me up,” he says, smiling at the memory in a way that suggests the influx hasn't slowed down.
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It's not easy to capitalize on a moment. Plenty of artists don't. But, two months after Cowboy Carter dropped, Shaboozey landed his own excellent full-length, Where I’ve Been, Isn’t Where I’m Going. With speckles of folk, pop, and modern rap, it sounds different from the rest of the airwaves, positioning Shaboozey as a fresh, even necessary country artist.
Unlike Bey, Shaboozey's project doesn't come with such a clearly defined mission statement. Rather, it catches the singer mid-meditation, bearing witness to the twenty-nine-year-old’s anxieties about adulthood. On “Highway,” he confesses his fear of regret, singing, “I don’t wanna go down this road by myself / No, I don’t wanna be the story that others tell.” Elsewhere on the record, like on “My Fault (feat. Noah Cyrus),” his most pressing questions go unanswered to his own palpable frustration. On “Horses & Hellcats,” he declares his independence as he croons about sticking to the life he chose.
He’s scared, curious, and hopeful—and, like most twenty-somethings, the mix of emotions is hidden beneath a smile. The album’s heaviest moments are balanced out by party anthems, like “A Bar Song (Tipsy),” which features an interpolation of J-Kwon’s early-aughts anthem, and the rap-heavy “Drink Don’t Need No Mix” featuring BigXthaPlug.
Throughout his career, Shaboozey’s music has been hard to classify. Some call it country. Others say “alt-country” or “trap-country.” He prefers a more captivating label: music for the modern cowboy. What’s that? “It’s music for people that aren’t just going to put up with anything,” he says. Lone rangers.
It seems fitting, then, that Where I’ve Been, Isn’t Where I’m Going assures listeners that it’s ok to go off the beaten path. The album’s message matches its musicality, and after years of tinkering with his sound, Shaboozey feels like he’s hit a sweet spot. So far, listeners seem to agree. Where I’ve Been, Isn’t Where I’m Going debuted at number five on the Billboard 200 albums chart and received critical acclaim from Billboard, Pitchfork, and Rolling Stone. Even his hometown friends, who were raised on 90s rap, have taken a liking to it. “When they hear me, they’re like, ‘This is exactly what I’ve been looking for,” he says.
After sifting through RPM’s record collection, we head downstairs for a bite to eat. The dining area is decorated with posters and LED lights. Pop music blares in the background, and, rather conveniently, “A Bar Song (Tipsy)” comes on as we pass the hostess stand.
“Did you tell them to do that?” Shaboozey asks me.
Nope.
“Sorry,” our waitress says. Her freckled cheeks have turned beet-red. “I swear that wasn’t on purpose. It’s a playlist.”
Shaboozey laughs. “Turn it up!” It’s a welcome surprise.
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July 29th: Lunch, 2:00 P.M.
While we eat, Shaboozey walks me through his schedule. He hasn’t been home in months and won’t be anytime soon. In fact, he’s not really sure where home is. This fall, he’ll go on tour—kicking off in Minneapolis on September 9th and ending in Los Angeles on December 10th. In the meantime, most of his belongings are with loved ones. “I have friends right now that are just letting me keep stuff at their place,” he says. It's more generous than it sounds. “I have a lot of stuff,” he adds.
Aside from preparing for shows, finding a permanent home is at the top of his to-do list. “There's a part of me that likes the idea of somewhere not expensive,” he jokes, knowing that’s next to impossible. Recently, he toured a spot that was $10,000 a month—an amount he never would have imagined paying as a kid.
Shaboozey grew up in Woodbridge, Virginia—a quaint suburb outside of Richmond—and was raised by Nigerian immigrant parents. He and his siblings kept busy by watching movies and listening to music. His father was a fan of country classics and often played songs by Kenny Rogers and Garth Brooks. Later, when Shaboozey started high school, he discovered a new style: battle rap. In between classes, he and his friends challenged each other to come up with verses. “There’s not much going on [in Woodbridge],” Shaboozey says. “So anything you could do to have some fun, you do it.”
Little did he know that hobby would turn into a full-time passion, leading to a record deal and, in time, a new address. Right now, he’s got his eye on New York, Los Angeles, and Nashville. “I definitely like the hustle and bustle,” he says.
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As we chat, I notice a key difference between the man in front of me and the artist I saw on stage in May. Shaboozey is a swaggering performer. His towering presence—he shoots a couple of inches past six feet—is commanding. But when the mic’s off, that bravado goes with it. He’s shy, soft-spoken, and, at times, seems uncertain about what to say. Talking about his job comes easily, but his personal life? Not so much.
What was his upbringing like? “I’m getting old, so I don’t really remember,” he says, not yet thirty. How was his friend's birthday? “It was cool.” His relationship status? “Pass.” If there’s one thing Shaboozey doesn’t like talking about, it’s his romantic life. “People ask that question all the time,” he says. Even if he did have a partner, he says he wouldn’t feel comfortable talking about it with strangers, he adds. Once, while he was performing, a fan shouted from the crowd and asked if he was single. He politely brushed it off. “I’m pretty private about that stuff,” he tells me.
If we ever do learn about his love life, it’ll likely be through his work. It’s easier for him to express himself that way. Sharing his experiences in music—as he sees it—is part of his DNA. “I think it’s a very big thing in West African culture,” he explains. “There’s a lot of emphasis on storytelling. Passing things down.”
What isn’t revealed through his lyrics is displayed in his music videos. Each one feels like a spaghetti western film, with big open skies, roads that stretch for miles, and rustic watering holes. He’s directed most of them himself.
The process is less cumbersome than you’d expect. “I just try to create,” he says. “First, [you] pick a fire location. It’s a big game, finding setups within a frame.” He gestures to the bar. “You could have a customer and a bartender here, and perform your verse as they order a drink.”
The creative mind never rests, does it?
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Though he looks forward to directing more, Shaboozey’s primary focus is maintaining his momentum. Right now, he has a number-one single, a critically acclaimed album, and millions of new listeners. That sort of success doesn’t happen often, especially for Black artists who make country music.
In fact, eight years ago, none of this seemed possible. Before releasing his debut, Lady Wrangler, Shaboozey wrote and recorded a different album. “It was country folk,” he says. “Americana.” Eventually, he lost his nerve and started over. “I was like, ‘The world’s not ready for this.’”
Who can blame him? According to a report from SongData, Black artists represented only 1.5% of the musicians played on Country radio stations from 2002 to 2020—and that’s just one hurdle. It’s even harder for Black country artists to get signed. A study from the Black Music Action Coalition discovered that only 1% of the artists signed to the top Nashville record labels were Black from 2000-2020.
I point out how nice it is, then, that the industry has expanded. “Actually, it’s nuts,” he says. “Now I’ve got the number one song, and it’s country.” Thinking about that shelved set, he adds, “Maybe I wasn’t wrong.”
What happens after the tour? After an apartment or home is found? He's not sure. The details are up in the air, but the goal is crystal clear. “I’ve tried to make music that was like, ‘Oh, here’s the obvious thing,’” he says. The thing everyone wanted, even if they didn't know it. “Music is about making things that resonate with people.”
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