10 is so immaculately balanced that it feels effortless, but of course, it’s not. SAULT - an anonymous soul-funk collective who emerged seemingly out of nowhere in 2019 - are operating at the peak of their powers, crafting with precision and a palpable sense of joy, faith, and musical reverence.

With many astonishingly confident albums released prior to 10, SAULT have released a torrent of material, often without prior announcement, and always without press photos, interviews, or live shows. Spearheaded by producer Inflo (known for work with Little Simz, Adele, and Michael Kiwanuka), SAULT is a fluid collective rather than a fixed band, with credits minimal or missing altogether. In 2022, they released 11 albums simultaneously as a free download, spiritual and political Black soul music that resists commodification. 10 continues this trajectory in their most stripped-back, vocally driven, and quietly euphoric release yet: art first, ego nowhere in sight.

The opener sets the tone with a bright, sunburst groove, layering each element until it becomes an explosion of joy, like Kool & The Gang in a candlelit studio, but rather than keep that high energy throughout, 10 dials things down across much of its runtime, finding power in restraint. Sparse instrumentation - bass, drums, and gentle keys - leaves acres of space for the vocals, which are the true centrepiece here.

There’s no spotlight-stealing: just a collective moving in perfect harmony. The vocal palette of 10 is unmistakably grounded in the lineage of late-’90s R&B - a moment in Black culture where female vocal groups held an incredible amount of cultural and emotional space, and the album’s harmonies and vocal layering recall a golden era defined by artists like TLC and En Vogue, blending vulnerability with attitude, and packaging emotional truths in arrangements that felt both lush and intimate. Where earlier soul music often centred a single powerhouse vocalist with maximalist delivery (Aretha Franklin, Chaka Khan, Whitney Houston), this era emphasized group dynamics and gentle interplay. I.L.T.S. seems to reference exactly that, and the album is reminiscent of the power of The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill, which set a new benchmark for how musically rich Black pop could be. What SAULT are doing here is a celebration of that specific era’s emotional language - where voices carried message, mood, and solidarity.

If the vocals on 10 are rooted in the silk-threaded harmonies of 1990s R&B, the instrumental bed they rest on draws from the deeper, older well of 1970s soul, disco, and funk with Barry White levels of space and smoothness. There’s an undeniable lineage to bands like Earth, Wind & Fire, and The Isley Brothers - ensembles where the presentation was always immaculate. 10 oozes the energy of polished, stylish professionals, with discipline, grace, and class: a band who know how good they are, and show it not by flexing, but by gliding.

The basslines purr, the percussion breathes, and there’s a quiet seduction in the polish, sensual in its restraint rather than sexual in a provocative way. There’s not a shred of gangster bravado - just soul, poise, and a deep understanding of the value of restraint.

One of the clearest homages is the second track R.L., which rolls on with unmistakable echoes of Chic, not just in the clean, strutting guitar work, but in the entire atmosphere. The chorus feels like a direct nod to I Want Your Love and other glittering hypnotic love songs built on groove. In a way, it’s wedding music - the kind of groove you can play in a room full of strangers and see them begin to sway. And if wedding music carries a reputation for cheese, SAULT challenge that effortlessly with an album that’s friendly, deeply danceable and emotionally open - proof that songs celebrating love don’t need to be bombastic or overwrought.

It’s almost unthinkable that we won’t see SAULT touring this live, because it’s music designed for movement, communion, and collective celebration, but we hold nothing but respect for the anonymity that shrouds this project. These are sacred voices, and the decision to shield these performers from the cycles of fame feels like a radical act of self-preservation and integrity, not a gimmick like the recent wave of masked metal bands. SAULT’s anonymity is quiet, considered, and for the sake of the music. It’s a bittersweet shame this won’t be blasting across the West Holts stage at Glastonbury.