Review Summary: Borelord
There’s a curious intersection between objective analysis and personal appreciation, and I believe this is the point a music critic should ideally operate from. Occasionally, however, dissecting the component pieces of an artist’s body of work pales in significance compared to the
effect of the experience itself. Yung Lean embodies this rare type of musical artist- one where assessment through a lens of songwriting scrunity or lyrical interpretation seems almost beside the point.
The intriguing and unusual thing about Jonatan ‘Yung Lean’ Håstad is the oddly timeless quality of his sound- an odd claim, considering how deeply embedded his music is in the aesthetics of internet culture. Yet, buried beneath the profane, lethargic bars lies a nuanced, atmospheric texture; subtle, immersive and emotionally charged. It’s a misty depth, conjured from melancholic samples, cavernous bass and Lean’s curiously melodic, disaffected vocal delivery. To separate these elements for inspection is to flatten them; they cohere best as an intoxicating whole, forming a woozy microcosm of strung-out, cleansing vibes with a brutish emotional core keeping the deceptive shallowness at arms length.
This, Lean’s (quite literally) self-titled fifth full-length makes the fatal mistake of unspooling that delicate balance, retaining the minimalism and sincerity, but losing every shred of resonance and mystique that defined his earlier work. The result is a misjudged pivot that leans into earnestness at the expense of atmosphere, and showcases vulnerability while sacrificing cohesion.
Gone is the dreamy cloud rap sound we’ve come to expect. Instead,
Jonatan has the presence of a hungover stage-hogger at a daytime coffeeshop open mic event; disjointed, awkward, and achingly self-serious. A minimal but far more diverse new-age musical component comprising strings, brass and choir contributions do little but draw attention to Lean’s egregiously listless vocal delivery, and wring the intended emotionality out like water from a sponge. The grandiose swells of ‘Horses’ are rendered chaotic by his disengaged presence, while ‘Babyface Maniacs’ collapses under a jarring blend of clashing voices. ‘Swan Song’ adopts a parade march pitter-patter rhythm and farty trumpet accents in a bid for sophistication., yet it meanders with no clear sense of purpose. Even the more electronically inclined tracks on the record, such as ‘Might Not B’ and ‘Changes’, feel like shadows of his past work- thin, repetitive loops with little of the texture or intrigue that once defined his sound.
Håstad’s content has always been known for its stark personal content and this is more prominent here than at any other point in his career. The theme of growing up is central to the experience, and with it, reflections on relationship decay, emotional fatigue, familial ties, and Lean’s life trajectory- specifically the strife that comes with being a public figure. These are all mature topics and the lyrical approach on tracks like, ‘Forever Yung’, ‘Horses’ and ‘Changes’, though composed with typical Leanesque candour, is handled fairly well. Unfortunately, the distracting, sometimes eyebrow-cockingly off-key vocal delivery utilised does nothing to assist the sombre exploration of such themes, and frequently robs it of its essence. Lean’s drawl, once charmingly aloof, is here stretched to its breaking point, with only the twinkly energy of ‘Forever Yung’ and ‘Paranoid Paparazzi’ feeling like the vaguest of matches for the style. Where past production choices masked his vocal limitations with lush instrumentation and dense mixing,
Jonatan exposes every flaw, leaving even the more competent moments sounding awkward and emotionally hollow. Here, with everything pulled taut and scaled back, the issue is plain to see, and although the production is still mostly well-handled, the sheer pervasiveness of Håstad’s abysmal vocal renders it an exceptionally grating experience.
To his credit, Håstad is clearly reaching for something more expansive and personal with
Jonatan, seemingly attempting to bridge the gap between Yung Lean and his more avant-garde alter ego, jonatan leandoer96; a merge between persona and true self. It takes many risks and experiments heavily with his signature style, mostly to a borderline unrecognisable degree, resulting in the LP feeling less like a synthesis and more like a muddled identity crisis, neither a bold reinvention or a convincing maturation. It’s a confused, meandering record that seems to undermine the very qualities that once made his music so resonant.
Even the most long-in-the-tooth musician will occasionally have experiments blow up in their face, and that’s precisely what appears to have happened here. Everything, from the mellow hooks and satisfying bass to Lean’s vaguely melodic crooning is either missing or vastly repurposed, and in its place is a forgettable misfire that’s so wide of the mark Håstad may as well have been shooting in the opposite direction of the target. The fact that many of the lyrical themes carry a heady, introspective weight gets lost amidst the alienating, new-age musical canter, leaving behind a jarring mishmash of vibes with Lean’s unpleasantly lazy vocal sat atop the frothing gumbo. There’s no doubt that the intention was heartfelt and purposeful, but the execution is so misguided, nothing of meaning is able to take wing.
