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I first noticed Brittney Parks—better known as Sudan Archives—during an opening set for Caroline Polachek. She arrived with a violin slung over her shoulder and a sound that refused to fit a single label. Her presence felt at once playful and disciplined, and the music she coaxed from strings and screens pulled listeners into an unexpected, kinetic world.
How a self-taught violinist reshapes pop and R&B
Parks learned the violin away from conservatories. She taught herself to play by ear and later learned production tools on an iPad. That combination informs her singular approach.
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- Autodidact roots: Her classical training is unconventional. It’s built on experimentation and curiosity.
- Modern production: She adapts mobile tech to build beats and textures.
- Genre-fluidity: R&B, pop, electronic, and folk elements braid together in her work.
The result is music that feels handcrafted and futuristic at once. Parks treats technology as an instrument, not a shortcut. She uses it to expand sonic possibilities and to translate intimate impulses into club-ready forms.
The BPM: concept, influences, and creative team
Her latest LP, The BPM, leans into Afrofuturistic aesthetics and club culture. The record nods to Chicago and Detroit beat traditions while folding in Parks’ family heritage from Illinois and Michigan.
The album’s collaborators form a tight circle rather than a sprawling roster. Key contributors include:
- Ben Dickey — longtime manager and co-producer.
- Catherine Parks — her sister, who adds familial texture.
- Detroit relatives — cousins who bring regional rhythms.
- D-Composed — Chicago’s Black chamber collective appears on strings.
Rather than a cast of many, Parks chose a compact group to help realize a vivid concept. On The BPM, she becomes a persona called “Gadget Girl,” a figure who relies on machines to shape identity. The alter ego fuels lyrical themes about autonomy, isolation, and release.
Songcraft and standout moments on the record
The BPM balances introspection with dance-floor propulsion. Tracks flip between meditative passages and pulse-driven arrangements.
- DEAD: Opens with drum ’n’ bass energy and urgent strings.
- MY TYPE: A sleek, playful song where Parks experiments with rap and swagger.
- THE NATURE OF POWER: Drum machine grooves create a hypnotic push.
- SHE’S GOT PAIN: Folk textures collide with jagged synths.
- A COMPUTER LOVE: Lyrical questions about digitization and identity.
- LOS CINCI: A short interlude that mourns vanished communal spaces.
- HEAVEN KNOWS: A gentle closer that offers quiet catharsis.
Each piece feels like its own room. You can step into a frenetic club cut or linger in a quieter chamber of thought. Parks resists the idea that an album must blur every track together for momentum’s sake. Instead, she gives each song space to breathe.
Technology as both mirror and remedy
Parks wrestles with how tech reshapes perception and connection. The BPM examines both uplift and erosion caused by digital life.
- Technology amplifies voice through pitch-shifting and modulation.
- It enables new rhythmic forms drawn from club histories.
- At the same time, it fragments community and alters self-image.
Her music doesn’t offer a simple take. It treats machines as tools of expression and as mirrors reflecting our anxieties. The album often feels like a negotiation between those roles. In doing so, Parks opens a space where the club becomes a sanctuary, and the beat a form of communal repair.
Live energy and the performative spark
Onstage, Parks converts studio intricacies into kinetic rituals. Her violin is a visual and sonic anchor. She invites audiences to move, to laugh, and to surrender to the groove.
Even when playing for fans of an entirely different headliner, her set stands on its own. Her charm blends goofiness with skill. That mix makes the performance feel instantly human.
Afrofuturism, club lineage, and personal memory
The BPM taps into Afrofuturist imagery without mimicking a single predecessor. There are echoes of Janelle Monáe’s sci-fi polish and of Kelela’s nocturnal club textures. Yet Parks inhabits her own aesthetic: neon-lit, mechanical, and tender.
Family history and regional club sounds anchor the record. Parks’ research into the origins of Black electronic music gives the album depth. It’s both a celebration of lineage and a speculative projection forward.
Why this record matters now
In an era saturated with algorithm-driven content, Sudan Archives offers a human-made alternative. Her work suggests that technology can extend, not erase, identity. The BPM acts as an invitation to feel and to dance in the same breath.
Sam Rosenberg is a filmmaker and freelance writer based in Los Angeles. His criticism has appeared in several outlets, where he covers music, film, and culture.
