Infinite Coles – SweetFace Killah album review: more than just his father’s son
Infinite Coles once spoke about “trying his hardest” to keep his queer, ballroom-rooted music separate from the legacy of his father, Ghostface Killah. That line, however carefully drawn, has since been obliterated. In 2024, Ghostface referred to Coles as “that person” rather than his son during a podcast appearance — a moment Coles publicly identified as yet another instance of being shut out and disowned rather than embraced. The fracture went viral, and there was no going back.
That rupture sits at the heart of Coles’ debut album SweetFace Killah. The record pulls him directly into the shadow he’s spent his career trying to escape: his painful, unresolved relationship with his father. What emerges is a project suspended between performance and confession — loud, defiant, emotionally exposed, and occasionally overwhelmed by the very story it’s trying to reframe.
Across the album, Coles grapples with his position as Ghostface Killah’s son, attempting to alchemise years of ridicule, homophobia and parental rejection into something defiant and club-ready. On the title track, he weaponises ballroom bravado to mock brittle masculinity, delivering drag-level reads aimed squarely at absent men — his father very much included. Yet the track’s boom-bap skeleton and exaggerated vocal theatrics tip the balance toward camp, creating a tension between parody and pain that doesn’t always resolve cleanly.
“Dad & I” has the ingredients to be the album’s emotional core, but Coles once again leans into grandiose delivery. What could have landed as a devastating moment of vulnerability instead feels like a plea shouted into a void — heartfelt, but staged in a way that softens its impact. The hurt is unmistakable; the presentation, however, keeps it at arm’s length.
True emotional clarity arrives elsewhere. “Body Strong” strips everything back, drawing strength from restraint. Its gospel-tinged sincerity allows Coles to drop the armour entirely, turning the song into a universal redemption anthem that feels cleansing in its simplicity. Here, he doesn’t perform resilience — he inhabits it.
Ballroom culture remains Coles’ refuge and creative lifeline, and it’s where the album feels most alive. The “Boots – Ballroom C*nt Mix” is a full-throttle love letter to the dolls: beats snapping, chants lifting skyward, and Coles finally sounding aligned with his community rather than bracing against the world. With collaborators alongside him, the track radiates belonging and shared power.
“DMs” stands out as the album’s brightest jewel — smooth, flirtatious and effortlessly affirming. It’s the kind of song that turns sidewalks into catwalks, radiating confidence without bitterness or bravado. It’s Coles at his most magnetic and most free.
Still, ballroom isn’t only about dominance and spectacle; sometimes it thrives in softness. “Shoot” captures that gentler side. Built on a lush, dreamlike bassline reminiscent of early-2000s R&B instrumentals, the track glides with sensual ease. It briefly echoes the warmth of Coles’ earlier work before he snaps back into his sharp, percussive MC flow, reminding us that tenderness and force can coexist.
SweetFace Killah doesn’t offer neat closure — and it doesn’t need to. Instead, it documents a collision between lineage and self-definition, between inherited myth and lived truth. Coles may still be wrestling with the weight of his father’s name, but this album makes one thing clear: his voice, his community and his vision stand firmly on their own.
