Album Review: Escape Room by Teyana Taylor

Five years after vowing to step away, Taylor has used her experiences to refine her craft. She is not returning to chase chart placements. She is building a universe to process their own escapes.

Courtesy of Taylormade Enterprises, Inc./Def Jam Recordings.

The first minutes of Teyana Taylor’s 2020 The Album begin with a crash of intimacy rather than an invitation to party. The opener repurposes a panicked 911 call: her former partner Iman Shumpert’s voice pleads with emergency operators after Taylor unexpectedly delivers their daughter at home. From there, the record unfolds like an autobiographical film spliced into five “studios.” Each suite – labelled Studio A, L, B, U, and M – is built around an aspect of love or self‑reflection, from “assembling the pieces of love” to “lust” and “self‑worth.” Rather than simply stack R&B hooks, Taylor arranges the 23‑track collection as a series of vignettes. After the 911 call, “Come Back to Me” features their daughter Junie trading lines with Taylor and Rick Ross. Later, she interpolates Erykah Badu’s “Next Lifetime” with Badu herself and invites Missy Elliott and Future for a Timbaland‑produced homage to Blaque’s “808.” In that first act of the decade, Taylor announced that she would not be limited by genre; she floated between R&B, hip‑hop, and trap and allowed family to sit at the center.

For all of its ambition, her previous record also exposed the fault lines between the artist and her label. After its release, Taylor went on Instagram Live and said she was retiring from music because Def Jam reciprocated “10%” of her “110%” effort. She described feeling “underrated,” “overlooked,” and “failed,” adding that she wanted her label to release her so she could protect her mental health and be present for her children. “I’m not gonna let this shit kill me. I got kids to live for,” she said. Rather than an impulsive stunt, the retirement was framed as an act of self‑preservation. She clarified that she loved making music but could no longer endure industry politics. The statement effectively closed her Def Jam chapter and hinted at independence.

Taylor’s personal life also shifted. She and Shumpert separated in 2023 and finalised their divorce in June last year. In an Instagram story, she confirmed that the divorce filing was leaked to the public, asking for privacy and emphasising that she and Shumpert were “best of friends” and co‑parents. She wrote that there was no infidelity and that they had kept their separation peaceful. When rumours circulated that she sought to punish her ex, she went on Instagram Live and clarified that she had no desire to send him to jail. She explained that their divorce documents kept resurfacing online whenever she achieved career milestones and said she filed motions only to protect her peace. She stressed that she left the marriage with what she came with, describing how she had paid for her cars and tour bus out of her own pocket. “I love him, I respect him, but I am moving on,” she added. Those remarks reconsidered the end of their marriage not as a scandal but as an assertion of autonomy.

During her hiatus, Taylor leaned into acting and directing. Through her production company, The Aunties, she oversaw visuals for other artists and took roles in films. When she returned to music in June 2025, the announcement was not couched in corporate marketing but in the release of a song titled “Long Time.” Over an insistent bassline, she chants, “Shoulda been walked out this bitch a long time.” The track then shifts into a slow, melodic section where she sings, “You said that you would love me till you die/But I guess our love must be a lie/Why won’t you love me back to life?” That emotional pivot reflects the song’s narrative arc: frustration blooms into vulnerability. The accompanying video features LaKeith Stanfield restrained in a surreal environment, with Aaron Pierre appearing in the latter half as a redemptive figure. Taylor wrote, directed, and produced the video through The Aunties, signaling that her return would be on her terms.

The cinematic bent of her comeback album, Escape Room, extends to the record’s structure. The 22‑track sequence pairs songs with narrated interludes voiced by Taraji P. Henson, Sarah Paulson, La La, Niecy Nash, Jodie Turner‑Smith, Issa Rae, Kerry Washington, and Regina King. Instead of functioning as simple skits, these narrations are like chapter breaks in a film, sketching scenes that guide the listener between emotional settings. An introductory monologue delivered by Henson sets the tone before the first song unfurls; later interludes by Paulson and Issa Rae (the latter appearing twice) supply mood shifts that mirror an evolving protagonist, while the closing appearance of Taylor’s daughters, Rue Rose and Junie Shumpert, on “Always” provides a familial coda. These voices create a chorus of women witnessing and shaping the story, underscoring Taylor’s long‑standing commitment to female collaboration and mentorship.

Unfortunately, this project wasn’t built only as a listening experience; it’s also a short film with a post-apocalyptic, noir romance concept that prizes scene shifts and mood jolts. On screen, leaps from claustrophobic club pressure to celebratory release to sleek night-drive momentum can feel like deliberate cuts. In headphones, the same leaps often reset attention rather than deepen it. The tension between cinema logic and album flow is the cost of the project’s ambition because it wants to hold multiple emotional states at once and uses different grooves to name them, but those grooves don’t often talk to each other musically.

Across another bloated 22-track set, that pattern repeats. The monologues define character and scene for the film, but in an audio-only play, they frequently separate tempos and keys instead of bridging them. When the palette is already moving from glitchy confessionals to the Afrobeats spark to four-on-the-floor sheen, each spoken interlude becomes another speed bump. The strongest run-throughs are the stretches where songs hand off to songs, letting groove and melody carry the story without a cutaway. On “Hard Part,” Taylor questions the intentions behind the other person’s actions, tying the pain not to a single event but to the gradual realization that they didn’t care about losing her. Her words express the weight of unreciprocated effort, with lines reflecting how she saw indifference emerge over time. When Lucky Daye enters, he steals the show, as he does with his features, bringing his lyricism, which adds depth by reflecting on mutual emotional strain. He highlights the time wasted, missed chances, and the challenge of moving forward, which is, by far, the best part about this album.

In “All of Your Heart,” Teyana Taylor’s lyricism focuses on vulnerability and trust in intimacy. She expresses a desire not just for physical closeness but for emotional openness. Then, with “Shut Up,” she addresses someone who’s been talking without action, using direct language to call them out. There’s a tone of playful dominance and challenge as she tells them to stop talking and show up instead. The issue with these two songs is that they both sound like interludes, as nothing really hits a different gear. It’s just… There. Things do get a little better with “Open Invite,” a KAYTRANADA-produced dreamy backdrop that samples Missy’s “Beep Me 911,” pairing up with Taylor’s sensual and transparent writing, expressing a desire for intimacy without hesitation. She makes it clear that she knows exactly what she wants and isn’t afraid to say it. On paper, the breadth signals ambition. In practice, the ear keeps switching rooms. Escape Room jumps styles so often that the ear keeps relearning the record.

Since it’s an R&B album, there’s an obligatory cut-and-paste “In Your Head,” which encourages patience in exploring what’s beneath the surface, emphasizing how real intimacy takes time and a willingness to let one’s guard down over an Afrobeats backdrop. We’re so tired. Teyana Taylor uses a breathy, controlled tone in the verses on “Final Destination,” almost like she’s speaking directly to the listener in a private moment. Her delivery feels patient, letting each phrase linger, enhancing that sense of inevitability she writes about physical desire and emotional surrender (even if the vulgarity is too much). The better use is the surprising “Pum Pum Jump,” blending elements of modern R&B and Afro-Caribbean rhythms, ironically borrowing Blxst’s “To the Moon” instrumental. There’s a confidence to Taylor and Tyla’s words—they express pleasure with an almost teasing sense of command, knowing their ability to shift the dynamic between themselves and their partner. The final section features a beautifully spoken poem by Jill Scott, wrapping the song in a more poetic, sensual conclusion. Her words explore themes of euphoria and deep connection, shifting from playful descriptions of intimacy to a more grounded appreciation of the other person’s presence.

The album’s midsection groups several songs around themes of accountability, temptation, and playfulness rather than letting each cut stand alone, which again can be a detriment to the cohesion. After the opener, Taylor pushes herself toward danger on “Fire Girl,” a synth‑driven groove that treats desire like a flammable substance. She speaks to the experience of enduring emotional turmoil but refusing to let it consume her. Teyana’s delivery moves from a cool, almost detached tone toward moments of more textured singing that highlight her emotional intensity. “Bed of Roses” is one of the better-sounding songs, even though it doesn’t stand out for being just ‘okay’ because it ends before it gets the ground running, but “In Your Skin” works better with just piano and strings doing the talking. Her singing is smooth, soft, and hypnotic, keeping the listener engaged with an almost soothing flow. Her vocal delivery feels like a gentle pull, balancing seductive tones with emotional depth.

To fully understand the theme of Escape Room, let’s lay it out: Taraji P. Henson begins by layering vivid imagery of a relationship engulfed in love and passion, yet clouded with tension and warning signs. Sarah Palson then narrates a relationship where affection degraded into habit, then emptiness, questioning the sincerity of the love received, suggesting that it was more about the other person’s need for validation than any genuine care for her. La La summons the image of stepping up to a sheer cliff of commitment and trusting someone to catch her, only to find a wounded ego at the wheel that seizes control of her heart and sends it careening off the edge, plunging her into a silent free fall where every betray­ing gesture deepens her descent and carves away at her will to stay until she delivers a final, irrevocable goodbye. Niecy Nash’s narration is filled with reflections on emotional aftermath and the difficulty of processing the end of a relationship. She speaks about how the hardest part isn’t the act of leaving but rather the silence that follows, where there’s no presence left to remind her of what once was. She touches on how it’s not just the person she’s losing, but also parts of herself that existed in that relationship.

Jodie Turner-Smith focuses on the complexity of love and attachment. She presents the tension between wanting a deep emotional connection and the desire to be unattached, with lines that examine the need for passion without long-term consequences. Issa Rae’s two-part narration is a candid reflection on the confusing, often unspoken emotional dynamics at play in modern relationships. She captures those moments of uncertainty, where one person’s shift in attention disrupts the flow, leaving the other feeling vulnerable yet unwilling to admit it. Her words feel spontaneous, as if she’s both venting and thinking aloud, revealing a mix of frustration and desire. The back-and-forth energy of early excitement now lags under hesitation, and she’s wrestling with the tension between wanting to be claimed and not wanting to admit it out loud.

The second part of Issa’s commentary after “Bed of Roses,” opens with a series of heartfelt questions about the reality of a growing connection and the shock of unexpectedly falling in love, acknowledges the difficulty of finding the right words to express deep emotion, and then extends a clear invitation to create a space of mutual honesty and safety, urging her partner to own his feelings, speak plainly, and join her in moving forward together with genuine courage and vulnerability. Kerry Washington describes the journey of two souls coming together, moving beyond surface-level attachment to a love that is raw and exposed. Her words paint love as something that arises from brokenness, with images of holding scars like fragile glass and tracing cracks to find beauty in the fractures. The message explores how real intimacy grows when two people stand unguarded, allowing their pain and tenderness to coexist. Lastly, Regina King speaks of love as something that is nurtured rather than owned, allowing it to take its natural course, much like nature itself. The overarching theme is how lessons from pain lead one back to a sense of self, and how healing must begin from within.

Sounds good, right? Within the record, especially with repeated listens, it becomes an issue, even when you look at the listing. Narration is where the world-building starts to get in the way, even when some of the messages work (9 interludes on a 22-track album is too much). They make sense for the film, where you need scene lines and perspective shifts. On the album, they often interrupt momentum right when a song has established a pulse or a key center. Run two narrations close together, and the next song has to do the work of re-engaging the listener before it can deepen the story. Thematically, the material is strong in outline. The film (which will premiere tomorrow) and the album together stake out heartbreak, control, recovery, and new love, and the “Long Time” visual makes that triangle legible: an ex as a source of damage, a new partner as a lifeline, and Taylor reasserting agency. The best songs narrow the lens to simple, defensible scenes—leaving the room that should have been left earlier, asking for reciprocity, finding a track that feels like breath returning. The writing blurs in the middle third, where production shifts do more storytelling than the lyrics, and where the narrations explain mood instead of letting songs carry it. That imbalance tilts the project toward concept over songcraft.

That variety reflects the complexity of the subject, for better or worse: there is no single escape route from hurt or societal expectations. Taylor allows anger, seduction, mourning, and joy without tidying them into neat resolutions. The final image is not of a woman at peace but of an artist who built a world to move through pain and return with wisdom. Teyana Taylor turns her hiatus, her divorce, and her creative experiments into raw material for a project that blurs the line between record and movie, personal diary and communal ritual. Escape Room shows that retreat can be a prelude to reinvention, and that part is the most powerful comeback, one authored on one’s terms. But sonically, none of those choices are bad in isolation, but the album rarely returns to a central adhesive language or a recurrent narrative. You hear a good idea, then you’re somewhere else. The constant pivots read as a film score moving through scenes rather than an album sharpening a core sound.

There is still a resilient core here. Taylor is the constant, and when her voice sits near the front of the mix without clutter, the perspective lands. The team around her matters, too. She has spoken about Aaron Pierre being deeply involved—“basically EP’ed” the album—and that attention to detail shows in arrangement choices and the film’s physical language. The fix for next time is not to shrink the world. It’s to choose a tighter musical grammar for it. Pick two measured homes and return to them. Identify a recurring fingerprint that passes from song to song. Let the interludes become musical—short motifs, voicemails with harmony beds, sung refrains—so the story moves without halting playback. Save a few actor cameos for the film cut, then design an album sequence that relies on songs to do the heavy lifting. Keep the guest list, shave the filler, and flesh out the records, but plug each feature into a specific narrative function rather than a discrete vibe. Above all, write toward the lines that don’t need a prologue or epilogue to hit. That is how Escape Room turns from a compelling multimedia idea into a tighter album you want to live with front to back.

Above Average (★★★☆☆)

Favorite Track(s): “Hard Part,” “Pum Pum Jump,” “In Your Skin”