‘Volume’ Review: A Visual Delight With Missing Notes in Its Rhythm

Volume is the second Kenyan show produced for Netflix, and unlike 2022’s socially expansive Country Queen, their second outing tunes out a coming-of-age drama weighed against the backdrop of a rap musical. From the first scenes – a robbery by masked thieves gracefully gliding within a more colourful than usual Nairobi, and a distinctively suave getaway driver stringing along some kanjos – the sharpened eye of seasoned director Tosh Gitonga is imprinted into every scene. Already boasting three of his films on the platform, the last (Disconnect: The Wedding Planner) which was the most-watched Kenyan title on Netflix in the first half of 2023, Volume takes on a much broader narrative than a film to imbue his dazzle.

The first episode jumps right into the heat of the narrative, with the young protagonist, Benja, played by Brian Kabugi (Salem), a day away from the biggest day of his life. Yet as he strides nonchalantly through the episode, with brief conversations with his mother, girlfriend, influencer, best friend, and a stranger in his cell, one wouldn’t know how important the day is to him. And worst of all, his one chance to show why he made it to the final of a prestigious rap battle is a dubbed performance to make up for what I can only assume was a very languid live show by the actor. Volume’s first episode feels like a fourth, like a filler that reacquaints the audience with the narrative and the characters we have watched as they changed. Then the thinly sliced conversations would have proper context, and this rapper Benja, with millions of fans and a stage geared for his arrival, could matter. Sadly, for the first episode, it doesn’t.

The subsequent five episodes maintain a consistent mix of highs and lows, with the narrative breaking out deeper into the business of music making, campus hurdles, crime organisations, relationships, and everything that comes with the life of a young superstar in the making. However, the celebrity world built around Benja has no solid, believable ground to stand on. Too many people praise a boy whose music isn’t all that good, and building a narrative that requires constant reminders of his fame in the script doesn’t make it any more convincing. Volume manages to create a strong team around him—a group of his contemporaries whose lives overtake Benja’s—but is too hesitant to form any connection with the audience. If I am honest, I would be more interested in a story focused around Stephanie Muchiri’s character, who brings out a vibrant and unrivalled performance as an Instagram influencer whose acting chops make Kabugi’s look second-rate.

A lot is squeezed in for the six-episode format that is becoming a norm with Netflix, but the pacing of Volume lacks the rhythm to build a story on. A long music video, perhaps. Any moment that has the potential to delve deeper into the characters is quickly cut short by stylised cars, vaunted clubs, and inconsequential dialogue that offer vivacious scenes at the expense of any regard for the actual plot. Much praise goes to the costume and set design because every scene in this show is pulsating with colour and style, and the direction of Gitonga and co-directors enhance scenes with a picturesque and elegant aura, but they are unfortunately not enough to elevate Volume where it matters. Unexploited sex scenes, police detectives looking like fashion models, brooding men standing around to give the impression of a gang, a school that introduces us to hallways and the psychologist’s office instead of classes, and relationships are so casually handled that a mother would tell her only daughter it’s her job to keep a boy on the straight.

“This is a music show, and what does a music show need? That’s right, good sound,” one character says. Ironically, what fails most for Volume is the one thing that could have redeemed it. For the story of a rapping boy who uses his music to channel the challenges in his life and make something out of it, the music really falls flat. Benja’s stage presence is excruciating to watch, especially since the show is so quick to push fake head bobs and crowd excitement to build it up. It is sad that a lot of the songs that play in the background are far better than the ones produced to tell the craft of its main character. Moreover, including real artists like Wangechi and Barak Jacuzzi and not utilising them to actually make a rap soundtrack worthy of having a story built around is disappointing. It speaks volumes that neither the sound, the rap, nor the atmosphere of any of the music on the show feels remotely Kenyan. I wish Trio Mio was given the cheque and the freedom to star in Volume because, at least then, there would be actual skills in performance and lyrics that could extenuate the themes of the show without feeling as lazy.

Volume looks nice. As expected, it has all the flair that seems to follow Gitonga’s productions post-Nairobi Half Life, and like with all of them, he seems to be more concerned with the look and feel than with the story. Volume has all the right ingredients to stand above everything produced locally with the Netflix budget, and a core set of characters who, if they didn’t spend so much time asking rhetorical questions and getting lost within expository dialogue that mishandles their emotional arcs, could have painted a really beautiful portrait of the pursuit of authentic Kenyan artistry. Instead, it joins a list of what could have been.

Volume is available to stream on Netflix.