The surprise album drop, popularised by Beyoncé’s globe-shaking self-titled record in 2013 and now a vital part of the album-release ecosystem, has come to represent the ultimate creative flex: an artist so brimming with ideas, productivity and industry power that they can forgo the typical announcement-slash-promotional rigmarole. It’s a further kick in the shins by Kendrick after he’d already destroyed Drake. It’s Eminem reminding us of his magnitude. It’s actually a double album, winks Taylor.
For Justin Bieber, though, his surprise drop is oddly exposing – just further confirmation of the artistic lethargy that has plagued his most recent work, and an unfortunate insight into a man who seems awkwardly caught between sex, God, and self-pity.
Swag, Bieber’s seventh album, pads about in the sounds of Eighties sex jams, the singer cooing over a repetitive series of plush synths that call to mind (if we’re being generous) mid-career Michael Jackson, or (if we’re not) early Zayn Malik. Opener “All I Can Take” is the best thing here, Bieber’s occasionally strained warble of a voice swaddled in prettying reverb, twinkly piano surrounding him. It suggests an album of upbeat pop, but Swag’s tone shifts within seconds. “Daisies” sports a crunchy, country twang; “Yukon” is a jittery slice of SZA-style melancholy, Bieber’s voice pitched so high that you could swear a guest vocalist has been left unbilled on the tracklist.
From there, repetition sets in. Bieber oscillates between plodding love songs (“That’s my baby, she’s iconic,” he boasts on “Go Baby”) and spoken interludes both mystifying and mortifying. They more or less find Bieber nodding politely as internet comic Druski tells him exactly what he wants to hear. “‘Oh my God, he’s f***ing losing his mind’ – nah, I think he’s just being a human being,” Druski cracks at one point, in a blunt discussion of the speculation that’s erupted around Bieber’s mental health of late. “You kinda sound Black on this [album], man,” Druski says in another. “Your skin white, but your soul Black, Justin.” Lord, spare us.
Later on, a collaboration with rapper Sexyy Red is a raunchless calamity. “I like it sticky in the sheets, I’ll make your sheets hot,” Bieber monotones, with all the eroticism of a tax audit. “Keep on stroking my ego/ Are you stroking my...” he teases on the slinky, New Edition soundalike “Too Long”. “Just keep your mouth there.” These ghoulish single-entendre numbers collide awkwardly with the God-fearing elsewhere. A voice demo finds Bieber singing “Glory to the most high”, while the album is capped by a call to the Lord by gospel singer Marvin Winans.
Where does Bieber sit in between all of this? It’s unclear. We get a sense that he’s regretful, but only just. (And for what, who knows?) We get a sense that his marriage to model and entrepreneur Hailey Bieber can be rocky, maybe, but is fundamentally solid (“Gave you a ring ... I told you I’d change/ It’s just human nature, these growing pains,” he insists over soft 808s on “Walking Away”). It seems apparent that Bieber is incredibly randy... but most of all, randy for Jesus.
Perhaps none of this matters – if you’re a longstanding Belieber by this point, you’re probably used to the tonal shifts of his adult material. But, outside of his hardcore devotees, Bieber remains more of a curiosity than a consistent, coherent creative force – Swag won’t do much to change the conversation.
