From the beginning, Sam Smith seemed set for stardom: his debut came at the start of Disclosure's world domination and gave them a show-stopping performance on the lingering mega-hit "Latch". Less than a year later, he appeared on Naughty Boy's "La La La", a summer smash that went to number one in the UK and the top of the charts in the rest of Europe. By the time he released "Money on My Mind" at the beginning of 2014, it was already a done deal. The young 22-year-old, the son of a wealthy London banker who was fired for spending too much time trying to jumpstart his pop career, would be the UK's next big thing. And here we are: the week where his debut In the Lonely Hour, sees release in North America, the album is sitting at number one in the UK for the second week in a row, riding two chart-topping singles and edging the US top ten with its latest.
So why all the hubbub? If you've heard "Latch", you already know about that voice: Sam Smith possesses one hell of a set of pipes, able to go from a commanding lower register to an inhumanly high squawk in record time. (“I remember hearing ‘Latch’ and thinking, ‘No person can go through that many vocal ranges at one time without going through a computer,’ ” said one of his A&R reps in a recent feature.) That talent is central to "Money on My Mind", an itchy-feet drum'n'bass number with a chorus so high-pitched you might mistake Smith for a bird. More importantly, however, he details his signing to the record label and his apparent unwillingness to kowtow to record label demands, attempting to set himself apart as a freethinker. "I do it for the love," he insists on the chorus, and "You say, 'Could you write a song for me?'/ I say, 'I'm sorry I won't do that happily'" in the verse. But the main problem with In the Lonely Hour—and all of Smith's music up to this point—is exactly the opposite: it feels like the record company has groomed him within an inch of his life.
With undeniable pipes weighed down by generic songcraft, Smith makes me think of Duffy, a blue-eyed soul singer recruited in the wake of Amy Winehouse to capitalize on the sudden hunger for retro soul music. While Smith doesn't tap into that sound as directly, the emotional impact of the syrupy strings, by-the-book lyrics about heartbreak, and trite chord progressions is the same.
In the Lonely Hour is meant to be Smith's love letter to a man who never returned his feelings; it's an affecting idea, and Smith's inexperience—he hasn't yet been in a relationship—should provide for a fascinating level of sincerity, but too often it feels like he's being held back by an oppressive sense of musical conservatism. "Stay With Me" (currently making its way up the U.S. charts) has all the elements of a stunning ballad, a plea for a lover to stay over after a one night stand just for some human contact. Unfortunately, a hammy choir over-emotes all over his delicate late-night vulnerability, taking Smith's raw honesty and overcooking it to a grey pallor.
There are other moments of lucidity that pop up amidst the midtempo mush. The tender "Good Thing" has Smith expertly navigating tangled lyrics about obsession ("Too much of a good thing won't be good anymore/ Watch where I tread before I fall")—but then there's an inexplicable blast of cheesy Hollywood strings in lieu of a bridge. "Leave Your Lover", meanwhile, has a disarmingly direct chorus: "Leave your lover/ Leave him for me," all sung matter-of-factly in his most gorgeous falsetto. He repeats the conceit on "Like I Can", this time a mess of clichés built on a trendy acoustic guitar stomp, a sound that's more representative of the rest of the album. "Not in That Way" is a histrionic weeper with all the subtlety of a Susan Boyle song, and the type of lyrics written by high-schoolers still stuck rhyming "moon", "June", and "spoon".
Still, most of In the Lonely Hour is enjoyable just for Smith's voice alone—so unusual, unpredictable and utterly pleasing that it can be wonderful to listen to even through the most egregious of lite-FM tropes. But so much of the album remains hard to swallow otherwise, lost underneath layers of industry polish and focus-grouped lyrics. Though there's no doubt In the Lonely Hour comes from a personal place, it doesn't end up feeling like a very personal record. Except for one part: on the album's very first line, Smith quivers "When I signed my deal/ I felt pressure." Judging from how In the Lonely Hour turned out, his suspicions were for good reason.
