Dominic Fike knows how to flirt with a good melody. Committing to it is another matter.
Written and recorded largely in hotels, tour buses and dressing rooms, Fike’s third studio album “How to Quit Smoking” follows a musician in constant motion. The “Babydoll” singer channels that restlessness into guitar-driven grooves and shape-shifting vocals, moving between melodic sweetness and abrasive experimentation. But for an album about growing up and breaking habits, Fike’s artistic evolution feels largely cosmetic – his sound changes more often than his perspective. Released Friday via Columbia Records, the 15-track project was preceded by three singles – “Wallflower,” “Small Town” and “Pangea” – that introduce the album’s sonic appeal and its tendency to mistake embellishment for development.
Across those introductory releases, Fike’s guitars do the wooing, while his vocals play hard-to-get. Released on streaming services Aug. 28, “Wallflower” – the album’s lead single – settles into a loose, lightly psychedelic groove, its electric guitar break offering a welcome stretch of breathing room. His delivery of the line “Wallflower, lily liver, chicken-heart” has a rhythmic snap, but the charm thins with his high-pitched vocals, which distract from an otherwise inviting melody. “Small Town” similarly draws its appeal from Fike’s familiar blend of easygoing grooves and melodic vocals, only for a shout-heavy chorus to disrupt the groove. Its reference to “caramel” skin leans on a comparison that feels more stale than sweet, reducing appearance to a food comparison rather than a distinct detail.
“Pangea” makes a stronger case for Fike’s rapping, pairing a self-assured flow with relaxed acoustic backing. Yet, the exaggerated higher-pitched accents on “this” and “that” in “I’ve got this, you’ve got that” feel unnecessary. The vocal jolts interrupt an otherwise easygoing flow, reflecting the album’s tendency to undercut its most appealing moments with surface-level experimentation.
As an album, “How to Quit Smoking” benefits most from rhythmic variation rather than vocal flourishes. “Casting Call,” the project’s fourth track, pairs an R&B-inflected chorus with rhythmic shifts that build momentum, while its stuttering, skipping-disc-style ending provides a playful extension of the track. The following track “Doomsday,” meanwhile, is less balanced, placing Fike’s high-pitched delivery against bright chords. Featured artist Reggie’s deeper voice helps anchor the chorus, giving the song a cohesion its earlier songs lack. The closing sound of a door shutting adds a playful finishing touch to the song’s lyrics.
Throughout the project, Fike’s collaborators are often the source of a steadiness his own performances resist. On “Honeylove,” synth-pop singer-songwriter Grace Ives’ airy delivery lifts the chorus, while floating vocal embellishments thread a feeling of weightlessness through the song’s denser backing. Guest artist Hether, a guitarist, vocalist and songwriter, similarly augments the dreamy presence of “Reno,” one of the album’s standouts, where smooth electric instrumentation creates a hazy backdrop for the pair’s intertwined vocals. Fike and Hether sound particularly comfortable, letting their voices blend instead of compete.
Elsewhere, the arrangements prove that simplicity does not equal stagnation. “White Keys,” a previous release added onto the album, builds into its refrain before opening into an echoing post-chorus, giving “The world is moving, we were never meant to stay” a more expansive, resonant sound. The sentiment could serve as the album’s thesis, though the expanding arrangement makes the sonic progression feel purposeful. The more interesting question is whether those changes reveal anything new.
Fike’s uncertainty about growth extends to the album’s view on romance, which fluctuates from tenderness to physical fixation to outright criticism of the women he addresses. What’s lacking is a clearer sense of what Fike makes of his own inconsistency. “Lily Was A Cavalier” benefits from a more assured flow and rising chorus, though its increasingly cutting portrait of a woman – with lyrics like “The features on her body is color corrected in Photoshop” substituting scrutiny of a woman’s appearance for insight into their relationship. Too often throughout the album, the women he describes become occasions for his desire or frustration.
“City of Steel” briefly makes Fike’s unaltered voice feel like its own special effect after the high-pitched vocals of the opening. His tendency to stress syllables not on the main beat finds a firmer foothold here, though rapper Jorjiana’s contribution is less convincing. The lyric “If I see you claiming me, I’ma sue” lands awkwardly, turning romantic friction into a punchline that doesn’t quite connect. Still, the outro gives the track a stronger exit than its entrance promises. The song captures the album’s uneven growth – rhythmic experimentation adds interest, but its romantic writing is more invested in posturing than reflection.
The closing stretch expands the album’s focus to childhood experiences and pressures of success that shape Fike’s adulthood, though its vocal habits prove harder to kick. “Not the Spirit” pivots the album to childhood hardship, with experimental rapper Danny Brown’s rhythmic presence equalizing a track whose textures remain more intriguing than Fike’s cadence. “War Machine” similarly becomes more inviting when its warped opening transitions to Fike’s natural voice. Its slower pace leaves Fike room for reflections on money, conformity and people who get their pleasure from crushing others’ ambitions. While these broader subjects do not automatically make the writing more mature, they give Fike more to reckon with beyond romance.
Closing the album, “Spotlight / Inner Child” delivers its most revealing change of register. An upbeat opening gives way to a prison phone conversation with rapper Tay-K. Against a hopeful instrumental, the exchange gives the title a personal grounding that the earlier callbacks only suggest. For once, growing up sounds less like a new persona than an admission that Fike does not have everything figured out. Nevertheless, like most of the album, the heavily distorted ending muddies some of that intimacy, adding a vocal complication where the conversation could have stood on its own. “Everything’s a learning experience / Everything is wonderful / Everything is amazing,” Tay-K says.
Fike knows how to change his voice, but his perspective might take more self-examination.
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