INDECENT EXPOSURE

On his surprise seventh album ‘Swag’, Justin Bieber is caught between sex, God and self-pity, writes a baffled Adam White

- Adam White

The surprise album drop, popularised by Beyoncé’s globe-shaking self-titled record in 2013 and now a vital part of the album-release ecosystem, has come to represent the ultimate creative flex: an artist so brimming with ideas, productivity and industry power that they can forgo the typical announcement slash-promotional rigmarole. It’s a further kick in the shins by Kendrick after he’d already destroyed Drake. It’s Eminem reminding us of his magnitude. It’s actually a double album, winks Taylor.

For Justin Bieber, though, his surprise drop is oddly exposing - just further confirmation of the artistic lethargy that has plagued his most recent work, and an unfortunate insight into a man who seems awkwardly caught between sex, God, and self-pity. Swag, Bieber’s seventh album, pads about in the sounds of Eighties sex jams, the singer cooing over a repetitive series of plush synths that call to mind (if we’re being generous) mid-career Michael Jackson, or (if we’re not) early Zayn Malik.