Kwame Yeboah and Ben Abarbanel-Wolff’s band returns with a genre-blending new release.

“I have a problem with choosing an instrument,” Ghanaian musician and producer Kwame Yeboah said in an old interview. “I think I’ve just gotten used to playing different instruments. I go through phases, I go through moods. I might have been a bit of a chameleon when it comes to that … I mean, I wish I could play all at the same time. I love multitasking.”

He means it. Yeboah grew up in the coastal city of Accra surrounded by music — his father, A.K. Yeboah, led the legendary K.K.’s No. 2 Band — and by five Kwame was already playing drums. A couple years later, he added guitar. At fourteen, as you can see above, he was leading a band like it was no big deal.

These days, he co-leads the Kwashibu Area Band, a group he started with saxophonist Ben Abarbanel-Wolff in 2014. They built it out of a shared love for highlife. Not the static version, but the kind that’s still breathing, still changing. They backed Ghanian legend Pat Thomas on two albums for Strut and took the project on the road, playing more than 250 shows at festivals across Europe and Africa. Their sets had the feel of something inherited but not overly precious.

The new album, Love Warrior’s Anthem, comes out Friday on Soundway. It marks a shift: softer around the edges, more meditative than celebratory. Recorded in Berlin with reggae drummer Big Finga and percussionist Eric Owusu, it leans into dub and jazz while keeping one foot firmly planted in highlife’s rhythmic logic.

“Nkwanta Bisa (Ask at the Junction)” rolls along on a hushed groove; the title track floats. It’s not aiming for big statements. It’s music made by players who trust each other.

At its heart, Love Warrior’s Anthem is groove music—subtle, spacious, and grounded. It oozes with the kind of smoothness you don’t fake. You might hear flashes of Mulatu Astatke in the phrasing, or that laid-back shimmer that Khruangbin has made its calling card, but Kwashibu doesn’t drift. They stretch highlife just far enough to let the light in. The record doesn’t announce itself. It settles in.