Compared to , the 2017 album that spread out over the course of 75 minutes, feels light and breezy. That's intentional, of course. never makes a move that isn't considered, and is designed to be the digestif after a multi-course feast: a palate cleanser that riffs upon the flavors lingering on the tongue. may strip away the excesses of -- there isn't a track that comes close to ten minutes; the longest are just barely over five minutes -- but he still favors stately ballads that conjure the ghost of early , the troubadour who created burnished epics instead of sprightly pop tunes. may have a way with a melody, particularly ones with a melodramatic flair, along with a fondness for lush, louche surroundings, a combination that carries a sordid allure, but he's also compelled to undercut his appeal by stepping on his own rakishness. is littered with asides and in-jokes, peaking with the winking self-parody of "Mr. Tillman" and bottoming on "The Palace," where offers the revelation "Last night I wrote a poem/Man, I must've been in the poem zone." As 's voice is pushed to the front of the mix -- there's no hiding from the many words of this singer/songwriter -- it's difficult to avoid his lyrics, which will either play as devilishly clever or solipsistic slop depending on your perspective. Then again, that double edge is also by design: means to provoke and soothe in equal measure, which is precisely what he does on . ~ Stephen Thomas Erlewine