.jpg)
This past Christmas, a girl you knew in high school recused herself from the family dinner table, shut herself in her teenage bedroom and, illuminated by the light of her sunset lamp, sent 13 back-to-back texts that all turned green. All the while, she screamed along to her new mantra: “My turn, mine to do the hurtin’/Your turn to bear the burdеn/My turn, ’cause I deservе this.”
It was an early gift from SZA (which still managed to arrive a little late): 15 diaphanous new songs that are beautiful but frequently as antagonistic as fiberglass dust, peaking with “My Turn,” a revenge anthem less violent than 2022’s inescapable murder fantasy “Kill Bill” but no less twisted. These songs are packaged with that year’s mega-selling SOS under the title SOS Deluxe: Lana, but they function better on their own: Unlike the rambunctious, mixtape-y genre hopping of its predecessor, Lana is aesthetically coherent, filled with warm analog synths and soul-ballad tempos. There are fewer piquant quotables, but it feels less jittery than SOS, closer in tone to the SZA of 2017’s CTRL, who laid bare her fears and flaws with the casual affect of a model doing a “What’s in My Bag” video. Put these songs in their own playlist and you can proudly call Lana the third SZA album—one worthy of its predecessors.
“My Turn” does a good deal of explaining why SZA, a bolder and weirder star than is usually embraced by the pop firmament, ended up with her name attached to SOS, one of the most successful R&B records of all time. Aside from, perhaps, Charli XCX, SZA is the only pop star who truly meets Our Moment on its own terms: She takes the emotional landscape of TikTok—a world where therapy terms are abused, no one can agree which flags are red, and everyone is “crashing out,” a favorite SZAism—and wraps it up in her own kind of pop classicism, a stew that on Lana contains elements of Latin jazz, new age, psych-rock, soul, and ’90s R&B, among many other things. This (on-paper) clash of form and function means that SZA’s music feels both electrifyingly current and built to last—a balance many of her chart peers have struggled to strike.
But next to every song that asserts some kind of self-love through an act of emotional terrorism, SZA leaves an asterisk: She is incapable of sweeping her own culpability under the rug. Unlike Ariana Grande, whose latest album eternal sunshine was filled with ersatz therapy platitudes (and conspicuously free of genuine conflict), SZA lays bare the ways in which the idea of “looking out for number one” can become a cope for toxic behavior. “My Turn” is explicit in its desire to inflict pain; “Crybaby,” a gorgeous, sunkissed ballad where SZA bemoans her inability to stop “blaming the world for my faults,” ends with the dryly hilarious refrain, “I know you told stories about me/Most of them awful, all of them true.” Many stars brandish “authenticity” hoping their fans will be too besotted to see it as another kind of costume; SZA pays for hers song by song, never condescending to her audience.
That willingness to showcase emotional mess carries over from SOS proper, but Lana is an altogether more subtle album: Its crush songs don’t carry as many caveats, and there are few outright vindictive or depressive moments in the vein of “I Hate U” or “Ghost in the Machine.” The sprawled-out R&B track “Diamond Boy (DTM),” luxuriates in the warmth of new affection; the arrangement is spacious but sophisticated, ending with a fleet, filtered rap verse that sounds totally disconnected from the song’s noodling guitar and enveloping blasts of sub-bass. It’s a sweet, canny outro—a musical manifestation of quieting racing thoughts to better enjoy the moment. The soaring “Another Life” is a breakup song, but it’s just as generous, poignant without any reservation: “I don’t care who you marry/Mine, mine, mine, mine, mine, mine, mine/Maybe in another life.” In the two years since SOS, SZA’s outlook has shifted, becoming more graceful and optimistic without losing its sense of tension; now, she just seems more interested in finding inner peace than capturing the attention of any one fuckboy. As she sings on “No More Hiding,” an album opener that combines delicate, bossa-nova-ish guitar and a yearning synth line and ends up sounding like it sprung from the same patch of alien wilderness she stands in on the album cover: “I wanna feel sun on my skin/Even if it burns or blinds me/I wanna be purified within.”
That softer outlook is reflected in the feel of Lana, which bridges the gap between CTRL’s lush, ambling indie R&B and the aggressively hook-forward nature of SOS. Although Lana sounds undeniably like a major label pop album, its component parts can only be described as NTS Breakfast Show-core: The sample of Mort Garson’s “Plantasia” that runs throughout “Saturn” turns it into something wondrous and exploratory, mirroring the shivery, extraterrestrial qualities of SZA’s voice, while an errant interpolation of “The Girl From Ipanema” adds a wrinkle to the smiley TikTok pop of “BMF.” “Kitchen,” which makes a strong challenge for the title of SZA’s most luminescent song, turns the Isley Brothers’ “Voyage to Atlantis” into what feels like an Alvvays ballad, its unfussy arrangement and hazy ambiance glowing with the luster of a full moon. SZA’s voice is better suited to this kind of earthiness, which only appeared in flashes on SOS, as are her hooks, which are always indelible but rarely lean; the chorus of “Kitchen,” which flutters along like a piece of pollen on the wind, feels of a piece with music that’s more freeform and ingenious.
Throughout Lana, SZA sounds totally sure in her ability to command a stadium-sized audience with music that’s ambling and sometimes insular. “Drive,” a highlight toward the album’s end, is a rare moment of metatext. Over plaintive guitar, SZA unleashes a series of stream-of-consciousness verses about all the anxiety that roils underneath Lana, feelings of grandeur and self-doubt and contempt: “I keep pretending everyone’s as good as me/Shit’s so weird I cannot speak/Balled so hard, I think I peaked.” At the chorus, she stops abruptly and begins to sing: “Just drivin’/Just tryna get my head right/It’ll all be better when I/Just gotta get my head right.” SZA’s music can feel claustrophobic at times simply because of how deeply it is rooted in her own thoughts. “Drive,” on the other hand, feels infinite—the sound of total freedom.
The Ed Sheeran people remember from the early days, the one who got into drunken fights and wrote heartfelt love songs to make up for showing up late from the pub, would probably have turned Play into a drinking game. Every time he uses an explosion metaphor, you take a shot. If he brings up the stars, you finish your Guinness. If you are bold enough, you can add references to heaven into the mix, though I would not recommend it. Some quick back-of-the-napkin math suggests that by the 20-minute mark of Play, you would already be 13 shots deep.
Whatever you think of Sheeran, he has never come across this uninspired before. In the first decade of his career, he managed to use his “average guy” persona to hide a relentless drive for success, a quality he shared with his friend and collaborator Taylor Swift. He started with “The A Team,” an acoustic debut single about homelessness and drug addiction, and spun it into a series of albums filled with dependable wedding staples. Along the way, he leaned into flashy but practical genre experiments that produced high-stakes hits like “Shape of You,” “I Don’t Care,” and “Bad Habits.”
Sheeran’s most clever trick was realizing that his very everyday personal life gave him the freedom to take musical risks that would have been harder for other stars. He married his high school sweetheart, keeps close with his childhood friends, and has even joked about once soiling himself onstage. That kind of everyman image allowed him to dabble in grime, dancehall, and even release a song with Cardi B where she claimed that “Ed got a little jungle fever.” He never seemed like a jet-setting, trend-chasing multimillionaire. Instead, he was the relatable guy who could skim through Latin trap, hip-hop, and folk pop and somehow turn it all into hits.
By his own words, Sheeran no longer has that same fire. He told The New York Times, “Pop is a young person’s game and you have to really, really be in it and want it. I’ve found myself stepping back more and more and being like, actually, I’m really valuing family.” While this might seem like a quiet retreat from the pop machine, it undercuts the work of artists like Swift and Madonna, who have fought to prove that pop is not just for the young. And more importantly, it rings hollow when you listen to Play, which feels like a retreat after 2023’s and Autumn Variations, his first studio albums since 2011, not to top the Billboard 200.
For someone as fixated on stats as Sheeran, this fact must sting. Early in the Play, he even says he wants to “keep this Usain pace.” Yet you can also hear the exhaustion throughout the record, where he goes back to his two safest formulas, romantic wedding songs and “global” pop bangers, without much of the spark or warmth that made him such a draw in the first place. The result is a clash between lingering ambition and a lack of effort, leaving Sheeran sounding like the one thing he never wanted to be seen as: a calculating pop star driven more by the need to hold onto his status than by genuine love of music.
That shift was not inevitable. The first track, “Opening,” is actually one of the most interesting moments on the album. It starts with a soft acoustic intro before veering into some of Sheeran’s weakest attempts at rap: “In this world, there’s no relaxin’/I’ve been here since migraine skankin’/Never been cool, but never been a has-been.” His awkward rhymes and the sing-song delivery make it tough to listen to, but lyrically, it is revealing. He admits he may have “lost his way,” worries that his “career’s in a risky place,” and references fallings-out, though he never says exactly what they were. It sets up the possibility of an album where Sheeran might really reflect on his place in the music industry and in his own life.
That is not what Play turns out to be. Instead, when he circles back to those ideas, it is through heavy-handed sentiment. On the stomping sing-along “Old Phone,” he discovers a decade-old device full of texts and photos, including messages from exes and friends who have since passed away. His conclusion that maybe it is best left in the past feels obvious and flat. When he sings about the “overwhelming sadness” of friends he has lost, it comes across more like a diary entry than honest introspection. He doesn’t push deeper into what those feelings mean. For someone who doesn’t currently own a phone, Sheeran misses the irony that most people’s phones today are already crammed with both love and hate. By the bridge, he has tucked the phone away again, as if to wrap the idea neatly without exploring it further.
“Old Phone” at least tries something slightly new, but elsewhere Sheeran falls back on old patterns. On “Camera,” he revisits the reassuring-but-bland style of his One Direction co-write “Little Things,” reminding his partner she is beautiful despite insecurities. Then he flips the concept of his 2015 hit “Photograph,” singing, “I don’t need a camera to capture this moment/I’ll remember how you look tonight for all my life.” The effect is less touching and more like a tired echo of Eric Clapton’s “Wonderful Tonight.”
The box-checking continues with songs like “In Other Words,” which feels like a weaker version of “Perfect,” and “The Vow,” which recalls “Thinking Out Loud.” Then there is “A Little More,” a bitter breakup track where Sheeran sings, “I can’t call you crazy/’Cause you could be diagnosed.” It reminds listeners of two things: he struggles to show empathy toward exes in his writing, and his attempts at humor rarely land.
The bright spots come when Sheeran leans into sounds outside his usual palette. “Azizam,” which takes its name from an Iranian term meaning “my darling,” is the most vibrant song here, full of energy and rhythm, with producer Ilya weaving in traditional Iranian instruments. “Sapphire,” a collaboration with Punjabi star Arijit Singh, and “Symmetry,” which builds on a lively tabla rhythm from Jayesh Kathak, are heavy-handed but carried by Sheeran’s genuine enthusiasm. The excitement in his delivery recalls the risk-taking that once made songs like “South of the Border” so oddly compelling. With Shah Rukh Khan, India’s biggest film icon, appearing in the “Sapphire” video, these songs are positioned to make a real impact.
On these tracks, Sheeran finally sounds engaged. He has said he finished the album in Goa, and these moments feel alive enough that you wish he had built the whole project around them. Still, the timing feels strange. Just one day before the album’s release, more than 110,000 far-right protesters marched through London, railing against immigration. Against that backdrop, Sheeran’s lighthearted collaborations with Indian and Iranian musicians feel disconnected, like escapist gestures at a time when such apolitical optimism already feels outdated.
The record closes with “Heaven,” one of its better songs, but also one that highlights Sheeran’s ongoing issues. On one level, it nods to a recurring critique of his work: even though he won both of his copyright lawsuits in 2023 and 2024, many listeners still hear echoes of other songs in his writing, and “Heaven” sounds a lot like Jason Mraz’s “I’m Yours” or Charli XCX’s “Everything Is Romantic.” On another level, its mix of light percussion and straightforward lyrics strikes a balance between the adventurousness he claims he has outgrown and the clichés that drag down much of the album. But then, as if unable to help himself, he falls back on familiar imagery: “Chemicals bursting, exploding/As every second’s unfolding.” Which, if you are playing the drinking game, means another double shot.
