The theme of pop in 2019 seems to be stripping it all down to shiny exoskeletons. Tones and I’s “Dance Monkey” hums up the global charts. Shaed’s sleek “Trampoline” is the zenith of Spotifycore—Zayn just hopped on the remix. Enter Emotional Oranges, an anonymous group making oozy, drifting R&B. They refused to state how many performers were in the group until their first tour sold out; then, two singers performed in masks, revealing at least the number of primary vocalists. They’re well-connected in the music industry, serving as writers, producers, and A&Rs for other projects, and they seem to have calculated the catchy, lo-fi haze that succeeds on streaming. On their second project, The Juice: Volume II, their smokey bass and throbbing beats sound pristine and precise. But the care and craft stop short of their lyrics. This is an album made to sing along to, with words embarrassing to sing out loud.
As a production exercise, “Your Best Friend Is a Hater” is stunning: sparse guitar, creamy layered vocals. But the lyrics read like petty tweets from 2012. “Your best friend is a hater, and you’re a hater too,” they croon, attempting to wrench out a meaningful statement. “My swagger is my dagger.” Cringey descriptions of sex squelch throughout the compact, eight-track album. “Let me lick and taste it,” they intone on “Don’t Be Lazy,” imploring a woman to “take it” and “go down.” Another brags, “My baby likes to get me off,” a lazy and obvious throwaway layered over immaculate beats. The shyest track, “Heal My Desires,” is also the weakest, as they chant the title over wilting chords. The sex sounds terrible, but that isn’t the problem; it’s the constant bludgeon of dull words over the shimmering sound that makes listening to the album so frustrating.
To their credit, the group surpasses the curse of most streaming bait: spitting out the same shade of song over and over. On The Juice: Volume II, they prove they can handle “Songs About Jane”-era Maroon 5 acoustics just as well as synth-drenched R&B. Each song is dissolving but discernible: a computerized beep-heavy track bleeds into a curling hip hop song. Slow guitars melt into sped-up synths. “Just Like You,” is a bouncy romp about masturbation, while “Sundays,” a response to a friend’s divorce, unfurls like a yawn. There is an emotional center somewhere in this music, rippling out in glinting chords and sighs, but the group struggles to articulate it. The mood is clear; its roots are not.
Just two releases into their trajectory as a band, Emotional Oranges are so certain of becoming famous that they’ve stayed anonymous in order to preserve their “normal lives” out of the public eye. “We’re going to be the biggest band in the world,” they’ve said. They might achieve that title through raw metrics, shooting across streaming services and then manifesting on your “Discover Weekly” once every three months. They’ll slump into ubiquity on playlists you’ll hear in a coffee shop or at the bar. But even if you listen closely, you won’t know who they are.
