Island
Folk Pop, 2024

The life of an aging pop star is as predictable as a rom-com plotline. For Shawn Mendes, his trajectory has been less about chart-topping bangers and more about thirst-trap photos and that will-they-won’t-they relationship with… oh, what’s her name again? You know, that ex-Fifth Harmony lady who’s been launching a solo career for what feels like a millennium.

At this point, Mr Mendes’s abs are more famous than his discography. Quick: name five Shawn Mendes songs. You can’t, can you?

So, after his last album didn’t exactly set the world ablaze or even mildly toast it, Mr Mendes has done what every pop star does when the charts turn cold: the Big Image Change™. His world tour? Cancelled. Was it underwhelming ticket sales or the need for a mental wellness recharge? You decide.

Either way, the result is Shawn—wait, didn’t he already have a self-titled album? Is this Shawn 2.0 or Shawn Redux? Either way, originality seems optional.

Now sporting a bohemian hippie vibe—shirtless, of course, because Shawn Mendes knows what his audience really wants—he’s pivoted to what the marketing team insists is “folk rock”. You might call it something else: music without strong hooks. After a few listens, you’d be hard-pressed to recall a single melody or chorus. Wasn’t there a song where he mumbled something like “why oh why oh why”? Or did you dream that during your third listen?

The problem is that the songs are simple. Too simple. Each track follows the same predictable rhythm: verse, chorus, verse, chorus, bridge, chorus. Yet somehow, every song feels like one long, sleepy mumble session. Mr Mendes sings with the energy of someone who’s been awake for 72 hours and is desperately chasing sleep. Even the “upbeat” tracks sound like they’re on the verge of nodding off. Where’s the spark? Where’s the fun?

Then there’s his cover of Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah, a choice so bold it practically begs for judgment. Sadly, Mr Mendes’s rendition lands somewhere between a polished audition for The Voice and a karaoke performance by someone trying really hard to sound soulful. He stretches out his voice with gratuitous “oooohs” and “aaahhhs”, but the result feels more calculated than heartfelt. There’s no trace of the raw, broken passion that made Mr Cohen’s original so haunting, nor the blasphemous, almost dangerous eroticism that Jeff Buckley infused into his iconic version. Instead, Mr Mendes delivers a sanitized, glossy take that’s as emotionally stirring as a motivational poster in a dentist’s office.

String together an entire album of this, and you’ve got something less like a collection of songs and more like an ASMR sleep aid. Honestly, if you’re struggling with insomnia, Shawn might be your new best friend.

That said, there’s one way to enjoy this album: mute it. Seriously, just watch the music videos. Shawn Mendes’s shirtless, boho aesthetic is in full force, and the visuals are more engaging than anything coming through the speakers. Or better yet, skip the album altogether and head to his Instagram or TikTok.

Whatever this “new” Shawn Mendes is selling, memorable music isn’t part of the package.