What People Misunderstand About Dark R&B

When people hear the term dark R&B, there’s usually a reaction before there’s any real listening. I’ve noticed that a lot. The word dark alone already creates distance. It gets linked to ideas of something negative, extreme, sometimes even disturbing. I’ve seen people associate it with things that feel almost theatrical, like it’s supposed to shock or provoke on purpose. That reading misses what’s actually happening.

Most of the time, what’s being called dark has very little to do with imagery. It’s more about exposure. About leaving emotions uncovered. The sound tends to lean heavier, especially in the low end, but that weight isn’t there to intimidate. It’s there because the feelings themselves aren’t light. The atmosphere follows the emotion, not the other way around.

I also don’t think this language came out of nowhere. It’s often treated like a new wave, but if you listen closely, you can hear familiar traces. Different moments in Michael Jackson’s work already played with tension between vulnerability and control. Later, artists like The Weeknd pushed pop and R&B into spaces that felt less reassuring, more unresolved. What we now group under labels like dark R&B or alternative R&B feels more like a continuation than a break.

A lot of this music circles themes people don’t usually sit with comfortably. Loneliness. Desire that doesn’t feel clean. Dependency. Intoxication. Emotional confusion. The reason the word dark sticks is probably because these songs don’t try to tidy those experiences up. They don’t soften them or turn them into lessons. They let them exist as they are, even when they don’t make sense.

Before moving into this space, I was writing rock music. And even though rock is often seen as raw or aggressive, I remember having to hide more than I expected. You’d use metaphor, double meaning, poetic distance. Certain things couldn’t be said directly. There was always a layer between what you felt and what you allowed yourself to say.

With dark R&B and dark pop, that layer started to fall away. Not because the goal was to be provocative, but because pretending felt heavier than being honest. The language changed. You didn’t need to dress things up or justify them. You could say what you felt, even when it wasn’t polite, even when it wasn’t flattering.

That’s probably why I’ve never felt the need to explain this kind of music too much. It doesn’t really work that way. It’s not built around clean structures or clear conclusions. It comes in fragments. Thoughts, sensations, moments that don’t fully connect but still belong together. Storytelling exists, but more like an atmosphere you step into, not a narrative you’re guided through.

I didn’t decide to make dark R&B in Hoopper project. I just made the music first. The label came later, almost accidentally. That freedom matters to me. Not starting from a genre, not deciding in advance how something should sound or feel. Just translating something real. If you’re feeling it, chances are someone else needs to hear it too.

I remember hearing the term dark pop before dark R&B. It was used for pop music that sat slightly outside the mainstream, heavier in sound, more uncomfortable emotionally. Over time, I realized what I was making was still R&B at its core, just carrying that same weight. Calling it dark R&B didn’t feel strategic. It felt descriptive.

I’m glad there’s more space for this language now. Not because it needs ownership, but because it needs room. If it encourages artists to stop softening their instincts and trust that emotional clarity has an audience, then it’s doing what it should.

I’m not interested in defining a genre.

I’m more interested in saying things as precisely as I can, and letting the sound become whatever it needs to become.