McKinley Dixon Review: A Sweat-Induced Triumph From One of Rap's Most Vital Storytellers

The Lexington, London

Maryland's critically-acclaimed rapper incites two sold-out evenings within this intimate corner of North London, birthing his most indelible iteration yet.

By the time McKinley Dixon saunters onstage at tonight, the room already hums with quiet reverence. The Maryland-born, Richmond-raised rapper; now three albums deep into a career defined by its intimacy and intellectual heft, quickly disposes his phone and wallet at the edge of the stage, as if shuffled into this performative fray last-minute. What follows is not just a performance, but a ritual of remembrance, reflection, and release.

Dixon’s world has always been one of contradictions: anguish and joy, grief and groove, trauma and transcendence. Across his debut, For My Mama and Anyone Who Look Like Her, sophomore Beloved! Paradise! Jazz!?, and this year’s Magic, Alive!, he’s carved out a singular lane of jazz-rap that feels both literary and lived-in. Tonight’s sold-out show, one of two at this intimate space, draws from all corners of that evolving universe, finding the threads of magic and mortality that bind them.

Opening with 'Watch My Hands', Dixon’s hushed delivery unspools over a harp refrain, his words hovering somewhere between a whisper and a prayer. The refrain (“Youngin come runnin', light tight in his hands, we gather and ask, is magic alive?”) lingers like incense in the room. By the time 'Sugar Water' initiates, the atmosphere fractures open: a funk-inflected bassline collides with cataclysmic drumming, Dixon’s verses tearing through the chaos with poetic precision. It’s an energy that recalls the communal jazz-rap traditions of Common or The Roots, but with a rawness that’s entirely his own.

There’s a constant movement between eras tonight. 'Sun, I Rise' and 'Mezzanine Tippin’ revisit his sophomore album’s soulful beginnings, their choruses shouted back by a crowd clearly well-versed in Dixon’s catalogue. The live band, now expanded to include a drummer and keys/sampler, brings muscularity to even his gentlest moments, turning 'Make a Poet Black' into something volatile and crucially alive.

The set’s centrepiece, 'Recitatif', is a masterclass in tension and release. Dixon’s flow grows sharper, more percussive, before erupting into a second half of dizzying onomatopoeic repetition (“stomp, stomp, stomp / pop, pop, pop”) like a fever bursting. It’s one of Magic, Alive!’s most arresting cuts, and in person, it’s devastating.

By contrast, ''We’re Outside, Rejoice! offers a rare flash of unguarded joy (“We outside, rejoice, rejoice!”) a cathartic mantra screamed back by the sutured and enamoured crowd. Dixon grins, sweat-soaked and grinning, glistening as each of garment of clothing is discarded with the set's passing. The closing stretch ('Magic, Alive!', 'Beloved! Paradise! Jazz!?') cements his command as both rapper and bandleader, each song a collision of groove and grief, underscored by the frenetic, skittering drumming that’s become his sonic signature.

For the encore, 'Run, Run, Run' sends the crowd out on a note of haunted triumph. “Running from the guns, point and shoot, we used to play up on the playground,” Dixon raps, voice trembling but unflinching. It’s a refrain that encapsulates the night: innocence fractured, memory weaponised, yet rendered beautiful through sound, particularly in the tangible transference of tonight's live performance.

Compared to his previous outing here at Pitchfork Festival’s London edition in 2023, tonight feels fuller, riskier, more alive. The expanded live setup lends his newer material the elasticity it deserves, transforming personal exorcisms into communal experience. As the final notes fade and Dixon gathers his belongings from the floor, there’s a sense that he’s left a part of himself behind; sweat, stories, and all—a legacy which demands an indelibility amongst rap's modern sphere.

9/10

McKinley Dixon's latest LP, Magic, Alive!, is out now via City Slang and can be found below. Photo is courtesy of Björn Bergenheim whose work can be found here.