For a moment in 2015, it seemed like George Lewis Jr., who performs as Twin Shadow, was about to break out of indie rock and into actual pop-star fame. Around the time of his major label debut, Eclipse, Lewis wrote a song for Billy Idol and submitted material for Chris Brown and Eminem. He dated Zoë Kravitz, posing on red carpets in a Calvin Klein suit. He donned a pair of white skinny jeans and talked about his artistic process for Levi’s. He became fodder for Page Six. But Eclipse, the album that was supposed to usher Lewis across the velvety threshold into the kind of mainstream success enjoyed by, say, Grimes or the Weeknd, was bizarre and confused. It peaked at No. 91 on the Billboard charts, stranded between indie rock and mainstream pop. His 2018 follow-up, Caer, flew under the radar. Now, Lewis returns with his self-titled, self-released fifth record, blending elements of reggae, funk, and classic rock into a collection of vacuous summertime indie-pop jams.
Twin Shadow is all soft corners. It’s plush, a place to sink in and zone out. It exudes the energy of a vintage conversation pit, upholstered in an unimposing shade of tan, with a little table in the center for your ashtray. Recorded partly in Lewis’ native Dominican Republic, the album is an island of good feelings set apart from the madness of the outside world. Its cozy, prefab sensibility is full of fat bass and anachronistic synths. On opener “Alemania,” Lewis’ rich tenor goes down easy, and when it meets Kadhja Bonet’s opalescent harmonies, you’re likely to fall into a pleasant trance. Perhaps you will be transported to a beachside bar, swaying gently as you ward off brain freeze from a $15 frozen drink. Most of the record is like this: easy to listen to and easy to forget. When the song changes, you’ll barely recall what it was you just heard.
It shouldn’t be alarming that Twin Shadow plays like a mix of the greatest soft-rock hits of the 1970s and ’80s—Lewis has written music that feels plucked from a crate of old 45s for his entire career. Pastiche is his calling card. The guitar on a song like “Sugarcane” would not be out of place on an Eagles B-side. “Is There Any Love” compresses Lewis’ vocals and lays on the funk, building up the kind of bottom-heavy disco track you might hear as a movie protagonist dusts off their leather jacket and slams on the gas pedal. Nacreous synthesizers and four-on-the-floor percussion push to achieve a euphoric liftoff that never arrives.
Twin Shadow is not meant to be deep; Lewis isn’t one to write with thematic complexity. Instead, he’s focused on conveying a mood, making sure you have a good time. He wants you to dance. He wants you to spark up a joint and vibe. The lyrics are clunky and silly in a way that feels lacking in inspiration. On the listless “Modern Man,” Lewis reflects on his love life over languorous keys and stripped-down guitars. “I’m not some stupid Romeo,” he sings with a sense of unearned dolefulness. “I pride myself that I’m a hoe.” On the ridiculous reggae Western “Lonestar,” he dramatically cries, “Don’t kick me off of my wave, boy,” over a looped “Hey, hey,” shotgun blasts, and what sounds like a horse’s neigh.
On a recent episode of How Long Gone, the podcast helmed by men’s fashion and lifestyle gurus Chris Black and Jason Stewart, Lewis revealed he recently recovered from Covid-19, despite getting vaccinated. To this, Black said, “You should not have gone to Tulum with Diplo, I told you not to do that!” It’s a friendly joke that somehow also captures the hollow tone of Lewis’ most recent work: Twin Shadow feels like an overpriced vacation with a bunch of DJs. It’s an aesthetic comprised of scare quotes, where aspirationally vibrant feelings become performative and dull: “trippy,” “vibey,” “psychedelic,” “sun-kissed.” It’s not real fun if you have to try.
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