Review

There's something rather tragic about watching a perfectly capable young man contort himself into shapes that would make a Cirque du Soleil performer wince, all in service of music that wouldn't trouble the programmers at Heart FM. Benson Boone, the 22-year-old American whose Grammy performance featured more gymnastics than most Olympic routines, returns with *American Heart*, an album that promises theatrical bombast but delivers little more than competent middle-of-the-road pop-rock. Following 2024's unremarkable *Fireworks & Rollerblades*, Boone has doubled down on the formula that made "Beautiful Things" a global phenomenon—soaring vocals, earnest sentiment, and production so polished you could see your reflection in it. The trouble is, when you strip away the acrobatics and Instagram-ready aesthetics, what remains is "bombastic, overproduced pop-rock with an attention-seeking, theatrical bent" that mistakes volume for impact. The album's ten tracks clock in at a merciful 30 minutes, suggesting someone involved had the good sense to recognise that brevity might be a virtue here. Yet even at this compact length, *American Heart* feels padded with filler. "Man in Me" and "Mystical Magical" are the worst offenders of his retromania, the latter too cloying and unconvincing in its whimsy." When Boone reaches for whimsy, he grasps only at air. There are moments where his undeniable vocal talent shines through the commercial sheen. His voice, a powerful instrument capable of both tenderness and histrionics, deserves better material than the paint-by-numbers emotionalism served up here. The ELO-influenced "Mr Electric Blue" offers a glimpse of what might be possible when personal narrative meets his considerable pipes, but such moments are frustratingly rare. The fundamental problem with *American Heart* is that it feels focus-grouped to within an inch of its life. Every chord change, every emotional peak, every moment of supposed vulnerability has been calculated for maximum streaming potential. It's pop music as algorithmic exercise, designed to trigger the same emotional responses as its countless predecessors without offering anything genuinely new or challenging. Boone clearly possesses the vocal chops and stage presence to be a genuine star, but stardom built on front-flips and manufactured moments has a troubling tendency to collapse under its own weight. What he needs now isn't another display of physical prowess, but the courage to risk failure in service of something more authentic. *American Heart* will doubtless find its audience among those who mistake enthusiasm for artistry and spectacle for substance. For the rest of us, it's a reminder that in pop music, as in gymnastics, the most impressive tricks are meaningless if you can't stick the landing.

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