Barkaa’s become her own mitochondria, full circuit. Teeth bared, nails out, and ready to rip through the thick skulls of anyone too dumb or too deaf to hear. While dipping a toe into the more familiar above-ground sounds of RnB self-love, there’s an unflinching gut punch to the way Barkaa moves around the pitfalls of self-aggrandising neoliberal tones through her praxis. She doesn’t tell us about her politics, she shows us – we see them in her boycotts, the content of her work, her joy – if only I could peak behind the industry’s curtain to see the settler-vultures of the Australian scene quaking in their boots, squirming with what to do with a matriarch of her own making.