When Ari Lennox released her debut, Shea Butter Baby, in 2019, she had just moved into her first solo apartment. She left dishes in the sink and drank from Dollar Tree wine glasses, relishing life on her own terms. She sang from the perspective of a woman in her mid-twenties, sculpting her future in real time, equally thrilled and anxious about the shape it might take. Seven years later, she’s become one of the most lauded names in contemporary R&B, beloved for her vulnerability, her playful humor, and her unencumbered sensuality.
In recent years, Lennox says, she’s also gotten sober and started dating with greater intention. Her third album, Vacancy, documents this sense of resolve. “There’s a space, a void I would love for someone to fill,” she said in a recent interview. “But the reality is people be in and out like a gosh darn hotel.” It’s the potency of that still-unrequited desire and her indefatigable drive to fulfill it that’s at the emotional crux of the record.
On Vacancy, Lennox sings with the self-knowledge of a grown woman: Instead of reassuring herself that she calls the shots, she now tells partners exactly how long they have to text her back before she moves on (“24 Seconds”). It’s inspiring to witness her growth—but if the winking irreverence and willful contradictions that defined her earlier work were symptoms of a more naive outlook, they also supplied the songs with distinct perspective and candor. She doesn’t need to return to old techniques, but as it stands, Vacancy sometimes feels composed to the point of redundancy.
The title track, an innuendo-filled slow burn with an unhurried bassline and warm, jazzy saxophone, inhabits the gap between aspiration and manifestation. Lennox commands it with poise and ease: Her voice glides like molten glass as she urges a love interest to spend the weekend, ostensibly to help her fix the shaky table legs and leaking pipes at her place. Like in Shea Butter Baby’s “New Apartment,” Lennox uses the image of home to understand the life she wants. But she’s clearly being facetious when she claims the place is a mess: She’s got Etta James on the surround sound, “hot cocoa on the couch.” All that’s missing from this picture is a partner to share it with. (It’s a concept that comes up again on “Deep Strokes.”) She ends the song with a directive: “I want you movin’ in with me/I need you movin’ in with me.” “Vacancy” contains multitudes: the assurance of someone who knows exactly her desire and the vulnerability of asking another person to fulfill it.
From SZA on “20 Something” to Drake on “Hotline Bling” to Erykah Badu’s vision of the cellphone as a glitchy spiritual portal, technology and phones in particular are pop music’s favorite symbols of potential (or lost) connection. Lennox’s writing makes frequent use of tech, meaning that Vacancy feels contemporary even as its sound draws on the soulful pacing and classic instrumentation of 2000s R&B. The very first words she sings are “2 a.m. on the ’gram, feeling crazy.” The Costar app gets a shoutout on “Horoscope,” a simmering ballad that uses astrology to enumerate the ways men have disappointed her in the past. And bouncy, bass-driven pop anthem “Soft Girl Era” references a TikTok trend in which women, especially Black women, celebrate lives filled with luxury and ease.
Internet culture is ubiquitous in contemporary life and dating—but, by virtue of serving millions of people at once, even the most niche internet trends and references also often lack specificity. “Horoscope” veers into this type of vagueness when Lennox lists out the astrological signs and their flaws, sort of the same way you’ll see them cursorily explained in Instagram slide shows. But the song is redeemed by a stellar, slow-building vocal performance, and by her sense of humor. You can’t help but laugh when she sings, “Sagittarius are some fucking terrorists” or when she remembers the Scorpio who couldn’t stop bragging on himself. It’s the kind of verve that defines her best work, and this album could have used more of it.
Vacancy is rooted in experience and features the most skillful vocal performances of Lennox’s career, highlighting her attention to mood and the patience with which she builds toward runs that feel like falling in love. Still, sometimes the songs feel like they’re trapped in amber, with emotion muted and songwriting that verges on repetitive. “That’s not my hair on your bedsheets/You said you were all alone,” Lennox croons on “Wake Up,” in the same tone and register she uses to express longing or infatuation elsewhere on the album. After hearing her eviscerate someone’s “deceiving, receiving, no-giving-head ass” back on “Whipped Cream,” it feels somewhat anti-climactic. You get the sense she’s outgrown this place—like maybe it’s time to start apartment hunting.
