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If imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, Bruno Mars’ heroes are drowning in compliments. The pop juggernaut has always been a master impersonator, from his childhood gig performing as Elvis around Hawaii to the soul and funk pastiche of his 2010 debut Doo-Wops & Hooligans, to his collaborative album with Anderson .Paak that celebrated the seductive irreverence of ‘60s and ‘70s R&B hits. Most of the time, Mars’ reproductions work well for him: He’s one of music’s most absurdly decorated artists, with 16 Grammy Awards, 10 No. 1 singles, and more monthly Spotify listeners than Bad Bunny, Taylor Swift, or the Weeknd. “Uptown Funk,” his incomprehensibly huge song with Mark Ronson, quickly dethroned “Blurred Lines” as the de facto selection on corporate party playlists, sure to get your boss loosening his tie just a bit. But on The Romantic, Mars’ first solo album since 2016’s funk pastiche 24K Magic, his genre parroting comes off more as wedding reception slop than an exciting comeback.
From the first single “I Just Might,” a pleading request that his lover be able to move on the dancefloor at his level, it’s clear that Mars is inviting more comparisons to groovier hits of yesteryear than usual. It reminded me of both Junior Senior’s “Move Your Feet” and Leo Sayer’s “You Make Me Feel Like Dancing,” hitting the same melodies or gang vocal inflections. As the album progresses, it sounds like he shoved some dollars into a dive bar jukebox: momentary references to Tito Puente, Curtis Mayfield, and the proto-disco pop hits of late-era Motown fill it with an uncanny familiarity. It’s hard not to want to Shazam each song, confusing it for something older or even another Bruno Mars cut: break-up ballad “Nothing Left” feels eerily similar to “When I Was Your Man.”
No score yet, be the first to add.
At least Mars’ flair for Latin pop pushes the music forward. He fronts his own Mexican bolero on opener “Risk It All,” and “Cha Cha Cha” naturally pulls from the Cuban dance style of the same name (along with a surprisingly playful interpolation of Juvenile’s “Slow Motion” on the chorus). Conga drummer Daniel Rodriguez elevates these moments; when The Romantic peaks, it slides into a bossa nova-lite rhythm.
The production is squeaky clean and sleek as usual. Mars co-produced and co-wrote every song with some of his frequent collaborators: D’Mile, who worked on Silk Sonic, and James Fauntleroy, who contributed to 24 Magic. The benefit of every Mars album is that it goes down smooth; it’s algorithm-friendly, easy listening that neither overstays its welcome nor feels like a burden when it pops up on every pre-made Spotify playlist. Mars’ voice also remains pitch-perfect. He is still a charismatic performer and a naturally talented singer with a tone that can switch quickly from crystalline delivery to a rum-soaked rasp in his upper belt. When he channels the latter, The Romantic reaches its better moments, like on the sultry yearnings of “Why You Wanna Fight?” and “On My Soul.”
But even when the album finds its groove, it never really delivers the romance. The lyrics are schlocky, empty, and more anonymous than usual for Mars. Sure, he’s the only present-day artist who can deliver a line like “Got my lemon pepper steppers on” in earnest, but the majority of the songs rehash the same stale come-ons and grand gestures of his early music. Don’t expect the drama or passion of “Grenade” or “Locked Out of Heaven” on here. These songs are about as romantic as an influencer’s staged proposal on Instagram Reels and were made for wedding DJs who, on the off chance, get a request for a third or fourth Bruno Mars song before the open bar shuts down.
The Romantic feels stuck in the caricature of Bruno Mars, trying to maintain his status at the top of the pop food chain. It’s not a spot he’s at risk of losing: even without a new solo album in a decade, he’s still churned out bigger hits than most of his peers could. At least his recent collaborations—the Grammy-winning Lady Gaga duet “Die With a Smile,” the frenetic “APT.” with Rosé, and even the less ubiquitous but more daring “Fat, Juicy & Wet” with Sexyy Red—showed he wanted something a little more left-field than his gilded crooner cage. He could take a few new lessons from his heroes: fearlessness, experimentation, and a willingness to not always give the people more of what he’s already given them. For now, it seems getting the aunties out of their seats and on the floor is fine enough for him.
