twenty one pilots
Scaled and Icy

Few artists in recent years have shown an ability to waste evocative covers by pairing them with batches of insignificant songs quite like Twenty One Pilots, an eclectic musical duo from Ohio. The difference between the aesthetic sense of “Blurryface” (2015) and the banal synth sounds chosen for many of the songs contained within is nothing short of disarming. However, with that work, Tyler Joseph and Josh Dun were able to experience global success for the first time: radio stations found in singles like “Ride” and “Stressed Out” the freshness of ideal summer anthems, and aficionados could appreciate the versatility of the album thanks to the addition of rock elements within the duo’s chromatic spectrum (“Heavydirtysoul”), which already included pop, more heartfelt than technical rap, and white reggae.

The subsequent “Trench” (2018), however, was of a different caliber altogether. Varied yet never chaotic, it succeeded in being simultaneously catchy and highly refined in certain production solutions. The pure enjoyment brought by moments like the impetuous “Jumpsuit”, the chameleon-like “Morph”, and the intimate “Neon Gravestones”—accompanied by significant lyrics on the importance of not glorifying the act of suicide—was further deepened by a second layer of understanding of the album, more profound and reserved for die-hard fans: the storyline that began with the previous album sees protagonist Clancy engaged in a struggle against the “bishops” controlling the imaginary city of Dema and attempting an escape from it. All fascinating ideas that could have led to completely unpredictable outcomes in the future.

Yet, Twenty One Pilots return with a long-awaited album that negates all the good they achieved in “Trench”, starting from the title: “Scaled and Icy” is an anagram of “Clancy is dead.” And the evocative pastel cover transports us to a universe where almost everything is rosy, narrated through harmless pop-rock like the dragon depicted on it. Only in the single “Shy Away”, minimally pretentious yet undeniably pleasant, can one find remnants of aggressiveness, although nothing comparable to the "first taste" of the previous album, the already mentioned “Jumpsuit”, and insufficient to justify the change of logo to the Sai, the traditional Okinawan baton.

The rest of the album is a heterogeneous collection of mostly sunny tracks, starting with the Beatles-like vibe of “Good Day”, whose lyrics appear heavily influenced by the experience of lockdown (“I can feel my saturation leaving me slowly”). And it’s a theme that indirectly recurs throughout the work, which Joseph and Dun worked on separately, sending recordings to each other. The unlimited creative freedom paradoxically led to an over-simplification of the rhythmic part. Emblematic is the treatment given to the only notable drum part in the entire album, the effected beat of the second single “Choker”, inexplicably left in the background in the first verse and abandoned in the saccharine ending.

This lightening, unfortunately, doesn't spare the lyrics either, which at best appear impersonal (“Slow down on Monday, not a sound on Wednesday, might get loud on Friday, but on Saturday we paint the town,” from “Saturday”) and at worst show us a Tyler Joseph—32 years old, father and husband—embarrassing in his youthful expression (using terms like “low-key,” “vibe,” and “homie”).

Musically, the rare attempts to shake things up never really spark true interest. The electric guitar in “Never Take It” doesn’t scratch as it should, and the island-pop number “Bounce Man” is at best suited for a casual drink among friends.

Things go decidedly better when the duo relies on well-tested formulas, as in the final pairing. “No Chances” revives the threatening synthesizers from the darker moments of their discography and contrasts them with a melancholic and resigned chorus, in a setup that mimics that of “Pet Cheetah” (from “Trench”) but smooths out the rough edges in favor of a solemn and steady pace. More delicate and poetic is the concluding “Redecorate,” which reflects on the visceral relationship of an aspiring suicide victim with her room and the importance of every detail seen from her perspective (“Blankets over mirrors, she tends to like it / She’s not afraid of her reflection but of what she might see behind it […] / Then one night she got cold with no blankets on her bed / So she ripped them off the mirror, stepped back and she said: / I don’t wanna go like this / At least let me clean my room”). An intelligent and touching lyric on a more layered and fulfilling base, unfortunately a unicum within “Scaled and Icy”.