Album Review: Love?… or Something Like It by Halle

Halle’s debut is ambitious and emotionally honest. The album’s imperfections feel human rather than careless, making this an impressive step for a singer whose voice remains her greatest instrument.

Courtesy of Parkwood Entertainment/Columbia Records.

Stepping into Love? … or Something Like It feels less like pressing play on a collection of songs and more like walking into a private room where a woman has already begun confessing. The first words you hear aren’t prosaic exposition but a lover begging to be sent “straight to heaven” while an “angel in my bedroom” hovers nearby. This is Halle Bailey’s debut as a solo artist, and she wastes no time letting you know that the air here will be thick with devotion, desire, and doubt. Gone are the intricate harmonies of Chlöe x Halle; in their place is a single voice moving between prayer and threat, between the celestial imagery of halos and angels and the carnal reality of undressing in the back of a Maybach (which we will get into in a bit). The album is framed as a story of first love and heartbreak—she described it as such when she announced the record, promising “a story of first love, heartbreak, and everything that comes after.” However, expands less like a linear narrative than a series of emotional vignettes stitched together by breath.

From the outset, she explores the tension between the sacred and the sensual. On “Heaven,” her hook chants “send me straight to heaven, can we go together?” while the verses describe lingerie and late-night bodies. It’s not blasphemy but a recognition that intimacy can feel like grace. That duality persists in “Because I Love You,” which arrives as a slow, sultry anthem co‑penned by British hitmaker RAYE (who provides background vocals in the end) and produced by Dem Jointz. Halle’s voice swings from gleeful brag—“You ain’t used to girls that can do it high fashion, you fuckin’ with a ten, amen,” to slurring adoration as she recounts getting drunk at a birthday party, grabbing on her partner, and climbing on the dashboard of a Maybach. She uses blunt language to show how devotion can be messy and embarrassing. Producer Dem Jointz surrounds her with swirls of modern R&B production—plush synthesizers, crisp trap percussion, and a low-end throb—but there is also live instrumentation tucked beneath the sheen. A guitar flickers like candlelight, and live drums peek out from under programmed hi‑hats, capturing the blend of electronic and organic textures she told Cosmopolitan she was aiming for when she said the album would be “modern R&B-ish, with all the jazz elements and hints of pop that I love.”

That blend of vulnerability and performance reaches a peak on “Braveface,” one of the record’s most arresting moments. Co‑written with singer‑songwriter RAYE once more, and set over a laid-back, mellow instrumental, the song documents Halle’s postpartum journey and the suffocating expectations placed on women. As a single, it was par for the course, but the album helps tie it together. “Sittin’ on the floor, crawled up in a ball/Lookin’ in the mirror and I feel so fuckin’ small,” she admits, then quickly picks up her makeup bag. The pre‑chorus (“I’ve been so tired/Even though I feel this way/Gotta do what the girls do best/Cover up the pain”) leads into a chorus that turns a makeup tutorial into a survival manual. She enumerates each step (“Step one, rubbing my foundation on/Two, concealer to hide it from you”) as though counting rosary beads. The song’s structure mirrors the performance of femininity it depicts: the verses and pre‑chorus are fragile, while the chorus is bright and rhythmic, like a beat‑driven self‑pep talk. If the songwriting occasionally leans too literally on the makeup metaphor, its honesty is disarming, and the production’s use of gently plucked guitars and minimal percussion keeps the focus on the words. The song’s power comes not just from its content but from the way Halle’s voice cracks and steadies, making the act of putting on a brave face feel both absurd and necessary.

Her debut tests the limits of confidence. “No Warning,” featuring H.E.R., is a dark, flirtatious track where Halle revels in driving her lover crazy: “I love to drive you crazy, I love making you afraid/I wanna play those twisted games with me, do you?/‘Cause I do, I do, I do.” The production here leans heavily into strings, and the guitar licks offer a subtle bluesy undercurrent. Halle’s lyrics are confrontational and playful, daring her partner to accept her volatility. “Know About Me,” her collaboration with GloRilla, goes further: “I’m no angel, but this halo give you wings.” She sings about sexual power with comic vulgarity (“He took the top off, I took my top off/I put my cherry on his sundae just to top it off”) while GloRilla counters with bars (and endless charisma) about ghosting men and refusing to give anyone power over her body. The hook repeats “What you know about me?/You don’t know” as a taunt, and the song’s heavy low-end and clattering percussion make the hook feel like a punchline. These moments show Halle testing the borders of her good‑girl image. She isn’t simply exploring sexuality for shock value but using braggadocio to reclaim agency after a period when her personal life was litigated in the courts of public opinion (*cough* DDG *cough*).

The center of Love? … or Something Like It is built on ballads. “In Your Hands,” produced by Dem Jointz and D. Phelps, is a devotional love song delivered over soulful guitar strums and warm percussion, and it could fit nicely on Adult Contemporary radio. She sings, “Our love is like the moonlight in the dark/No better feeling than your warm hand,” promising to be her partner’s bandage when he’s bleeding and to keep the demons out. The song doubles as an ode to her son; she said she wrote the verses while pregnant and that the hook about holding your future in someone’s hands carries a double meaning for motherhood. You can hear that tension in her voice — a softness that borders on lullaby yet holds a firm plea for trust. “So I Can Feel Again,” a duet with Chlöe, is equally tender but carries a desperation born of heartbreak. Halle tells her lover not to drive her home because she knows she’ll want him to stay; Chlöe counters, admitting she falls apart when she hears his voice. Their voices blend in a way that recalls their earlier harmonies, now serving a narrative purpose: two sisters confessing different sides of the same ache. The writing here can be blunt, yet the performance sells the sentiment.

Halle spends much of the record reckoning with her public perception. “His Type” is a cheeky response to an ex’s new partner: “He makes me feel like I’m so secure/He makes me feel I’m on top of the world/I’m his type of girl… Mm, you’re not.” The song’s playful tone belies its sharpness; she’s not begging for validation but smirking at someone else’s insecurity. “Back and Forth,” an early single written with producer Needlz, features delicate chords throughout and a pared‑back groove that allows her incredible voice to be front and center, though it could be fleshed out further. It is a conversation between desire and self‑preservation, acknowledging her lover’s trauma, but she refuses to get dragged into endless arguments. Even the saying of “Don’t wanna get into it (back and forth)” feels like someone trying to break a cycle rather than a lazy lyric. A standout moment surprisingly arrives in “Alone,” featuring Mariah the Scientist, where both artists lament feeling misunderstood and plead for their partners to pick up the phone. Mariah’s verse about love as an addictive drug fits seamlessly with Halle’s admission that she “go[es] to bed and lay[s] [her] head/I just want my daddy,” adding complexity to a song that could have been a standard R&B duet.

Despite releasing this track two years ago, “Angel” was her debut solo single, and it remains the spiritual core of the record. Produced by Theron “NeffU” Feemster, the song merges R&B and gospel with cinematic strings and ghostly harps. Halle sings of making it out of one’s head, of mistaking your flaws for property, and then flips into a celebratory chorus: “Black girl here, Black girl with the Black girl hair/Took a little sun‑kiss just to look like this/God-sent, you’re an angel.” The song is an affirmation of self-worth and resilience; she wrote it after doubting her place in the spotlight and described it as a “climb out of those feelings.” The production is spacious, with live drums echoing like handclaps in a church and strings swelling under her runs. That gospel lift reappears in “Heaven,” but here the spiritual language is lashed to carnal heat. When she repeats “I could die in your arms,” you can interpret this as erotic or devotional. The interplay of faith and fury is the thread that binds Love? … or Something Like It.

Taken as a whole, the album is more a mood board than a concept record. Halle doesn’t always dig deep into metaphor, and a select few of the songs feel slight, their lyrics bordering on petty rather than revelatory, and the record might have benefited from trimming a couple of tracks. Yet her willingness to vacillate between softness and control is compelling. She correlates anthems about black girl divinity with verses bragging about sexual exploits; she puts a phone call that borders on toxic in the same space as a lullaby to her son. The production across the album is impressively varied, from jazz‑inflected ballads to trap‑leaning bangers, and she often finds ways to fuse live instrumentation with contemporary beats. When she steps away from safe formulas, the record hits. It helps that her voice remains luminous, able to slip from a whisper to a growl without losing its warmth or clarity.

In the months leading up to the album, Halle endured a very public breakup and legal dispute with the father of her child. She has said little directly about those events, but the bruises they left surface between the lines. “Braveface” references her postpartum exhaustion and legal battles, and other songs, including “Know About Me” and “No Warning,” carry a defiance that reads like someone reclaiming her narrative. Even when she sings about being in love, there’s often a flicker of doubt—a reminder that belief in oneself is a daily choice rather than a static state. The record isn’t a biography of the DDG fiasco, nor is it a self‑pitying diary. It’s the sound of a woman testing her own myth, using mythic imagery to dress up messy emotions, letting us hear her toggling between faith and fury. Halle stands with smudged makeup and a halo tilted slightly off‑center, humming to herself about being a “type of girl” or promising to hold someone’s heart in her hands. She sings like she’s still trying to believe her own words, and that uncertainty is what makes Love? … or Something Like It one of the best R&B records of the year.

Great (★★★★☆)

Favorite Track(s): “His Type,” “Alone,” “Bite Your Lip”