Ben White

Forgettable, overproduced, whiny pop. Not much else to say. Overproduced in the sense that it attempts some semblance of the singer-songwriter genre, yet it has a significant lack of passion... of any sort. Melancholy? Retired? Sure, if your only difficulty in life was a stubbed toe. Middle school-level "poetry" voiced by an equally dispassionate vocalist, carried by detached instrumentals (as if the combination, the final tracks, were concocted via email exchanges) leaves the listener with an unremarkable and bland final product. With her level of production, heck, ten figures of wealth at her fingertips, it's a very poorly executed album. An album made for empty department store playlists. It makes an autumnal pumpkin patch photoshoot look inspired and inventive. If this poet was truly tortured, listening to their work feels like Gitmo in comparison. Silence would be much preferred.