Olivia Dean embraces The Art of Loving

Though this testimony seems to lie at the very core of The Art of Loving – or so the titular opener suggests – this is not where we often find Dean elsewhere in the record.

At its most thunderous moments, she is wading through the worst of it, stuck in the pitfalls of poor communication. “At my house / Four hands at the piano,” she begins on "Loud". Accompanied by a single plucked guitar, it’s a deceptively intimate set up before the true nature of the scene unfurls, capping off the line; “you sure know how to play.” She recounts these moments from a relationship on the cutting room floor, trying to put all the pieces of herself back together again. With each new track, a new love begins; with each dissolution of a new affair, these new pieces become clearer.

It is easy to grow frustrated with the realisation that the whole album will unfold in this way – that we must bear witness to each graceful fall back into bad habits, only for her to emerge on the next track, pronouncing some newfound wisdom. But, simultaneously, this is what feels most authentic to the project’s central vision. The vicious circle of self-realisation goes on and Dean lives to tell the solitary tale; “Here I am / Two hands at the piano,” she concludes.

For a record all about love, she positions herself defiantly at the center of its romantic core. Nowhere is this better demonstrated on "Lady Lady", a track that stands out for its strikingly understated warmth. Over mellow keys, Dean makes her way through a list of things she must let go; a litany of familiar comforts to leave in the past. The chorus takes these words and interlaces them with the music itself, chords transposing in and out of key, ever-evolving as Dean’s voice swirls up to strange new heights; “She’s always changing me without a word / And I was just getting used to her.” The moments when you surprise yourself, when you quit being lonely and start craving solitude, are distilled so perfectly into song. “Loneliness is painful; solitude is peaceful,” writes Hooks, and Dean has managed to capture exactly that shift: the sound of peace taking shape.

Yet, despite the album’s focus on self-discovery, Dean’s singular voice can sometimes begin to dim beneath the album's more dense arrangements. On the tightly-crafted "Man I Need", Dean harnesses the great powers of songwriter Tobias Jesso Jr. (Harry Styles, Adele, Dua Lipa) to deliver a song that remains eminently danceable, but feels thematically muted compared to the album’s more introspective moments. Each time Dean’s voice disappears from the foreground slightly, we drift further away from the record’s emotional centre and closer to something more polished, but notably more impersonal.

These more refined moments represent the larger shift in her discography from neo-soul to contemporary twists on R&B, now presented with the slight sheen of pop. This is not always a detriment to Dean’s success, however, as these experiments offer a nod towards the artists that came before her. She harks back to The Supremes on "So Easy To Fall In Love", a playfully sensual spin on Mo-Town that revels in its own unseriousness. Production similarly excels on "Close Up", channelling a Ronson-era Amy Winehouse when its moody exposition glides into a sunlit major chorus, lifted by its punchy brass. In these particular arrangements, it feels like every element converges around Dean’s central voice, bringing it into sharp focus once again, and carrying her rich storytelling with it.

Even so, it’s in the album’s quietest moment that Dean delivers her most compelling performance yet. Tucked between all the carefully-styled numbers rests "A Couple Minutes" – a soft interlude that stands apart from the rest, feeling like a glimpse of calm after the grandiose spectacle of Saturday night. There’s no disputing that Dean can float seamlessly between these two worlds, but there’s an undeniable pull about her performance here; away from the orchestrated drama, her voice lilted under a soft spotlight, against a bed of raw harmonies. Almost like a lullaby, conjuring something oddly familiar from the distant past, she recalls a run-in with an ex. “Although it’s over / I’ll always be there,” she sings, aware that this conversation is existing in a moment that will, too, be extinguished by the return of the present; “Only have a couple minutes since we’re going back to real life.” This pocket of intimacy allows the moment to circle back to Dean’s guiding intention, that she will always be there as the thing that remains, evoking Hook’s very emphasis on the solitude required within the art of loving. If ‘real life’ refers to a return to being alone, then this finale is the deep breath in the cold air whilst the music and the madness fades behind you. This moment is for the person you come home to, the person you remain, when the night is over.