Album Review: The Art of Loving by Olivia Dean
After Messy introduced her as a rising UK soul voice, Olivia Dean sharpens her focus on The Art of Loving, an album that feels tender and personal yet quietly ambitious in its sonic choices.
After Messy introduced her as a rising UK soul voice, Olivia Dean sharpens her focus on The Art of Loving, stepping straight into miscommunication and the ache beneath intimacy. On “Loud,” Dean writes into the pitfalls of miscommunication with a deceptively tender setup—“At my house, four hands at the piano,” she begins softly, painting the cozy image of two people sharing one instrument. The accompaniment is sparse (a single plucked guitar) and feels intimate, but it’s a feint; the quiet quickly reveals an undercurrent of hurt as the true nature of the scene unfurls. Dean lets the pain beneath the gentleness seep through her voice, illustrating how even the closest moments can be fraught with things left unsaid. It’s a striking opening statement that draws us into her emotional landscape and the theme of communication—or the lack thereof—in love.
Her second project represents a new phase in her trek of self-discovery—how fresh romances bring fresh insights, only to dissolve and rebuild into something more substantial by the next track. One moment, a new affair brings a spark of insight, only for that insight to fracture and reassemble in the next track. On “Nice to Each Other,” Dean captures the push and pull of exploring your independence in dating. Over breezy guitars, she acknowledges the joys of a casual connection without rushing to define it—just acknowledging what is. It’s the sound of two people having fun and being kind to one another in that uncertain in-between stage. But Dean doesn’t linger in any one state of mind for long. “Lady Lady” rolls around, and the perspective shifts inward. Here she essentially turns the love song on herself, enshrining solitude as its own kind of romance. Over mellow keys and ever-shifting chords, Dean’s vocal exudes warmth—an understated soulfulness that makes introspection feel comforting rather than lonely. The lyrics find her embracing personal growth, learning that becoming the woman she needs to be sometimes means dancing alone. There’s a bittersweet undertone as she lets go of past selves and realizes that being on your own can be just as beautiful.
With one of the album’s big singles, “Man I Need” swings the pendulum toward a sleeker R&B groove, showing just how many colors Dean can paint with. This track arrives with a glossy, modern punch—a midtempo jam laced with a Michael Jackson-esque shuffle and even a hint of Tears for Fears-style ‘80s pop grandeur in its synth undercurrents. On one hand, it’s Dean at her most direct lyrically—she’s finally laying her cards on the table, asking plainly for the love and respect she deserves. “Talk to me, talk to me… be the man that I need, baby,” she pleads, her tone warm but unwavering. There’s no coyness left; she demands emotional honesty. On the other hand, the song itself shines with a high-gloss finish, yet it carries a serious point about meeting your partner’s emotional needs. This blend of heartfelt message and radio-friendly polish typifies Dean’s approach throughout The Art of Loving: she’ll make you sway and think at the same time. If there’s any gripe, it’s that the lush production sometimes threatens to outshine her vocal subtleties. But even then, Dean’s natural warmth manages to glow, ensuring the sentiment isn’t lost in the shine.
Dean also isn’t afraid to detour into nostalgic sounds, wearing her influences playfully on her sleeve. “So Easy (To Fall in Love)” bounces in with a cheerful throwback vibe—a playful nod to Motown’s melodic sweetness blended with a breezy bossa-nova lilt. The groove is light on its feet, with all rhythmic strums and shuffling percussion, like something you might hear at a 1960s sock hop (albeit updated for the 2020s). The genius of the song, however, lies in Dean’s cheeky subversion of the typical love-song narrative. Despite the classic, head-bobbing sound, she’s not actually fawning over some guy—she’s mostly singing about herself. In fact, the object of affection remains almost a ghost in the background while Dean celebrates the woman she’s become. “I’m the perfect mix of Saturday night and the rest of your life,” she coos with a wink, a lyric that’s flirty and empowering. In lesser hands, it might come off arrogant, but Dean delivers it with a self-knowing grin, as if to say: loving me is easy, and that’s because I finally love myself. It’s a refreshingly fun moment of self-celebration wrapped in retro-soul charm.
Meanwhile, on “Close Up,” she pays tribute to the late Amy Winehouse with some brassy, vintage London soul flavor. The production here channels the Ronson-era Back to Black playbook—moody, minor-key verses that suddenly bloom into a sunlit major-key chorus lifted by punchy horn flourishes. The track’s arrangement feels like a brief stylistic excursion, flirting with the neo-soul meets retro-pop sound that made her debut album, Messy, so enchanting. It’s a testament to Dean’s versatility that these detours never derail the album’s perspective. If anything, they enrich it. The Motown and jazz-soul accents add color to her sonic palette, though they do pose a question: do these throwback stylings amplify her story or momentarily distract from it? For the most part, Dean maintains control of her narrative. The nostalgic vibes serve as affectionate backdrops—familiar frames to highlight how her own voice and songwriting have grown. Even as you catch the echoes of her influences, she never sounds like she’s merely playing dress-up; the core of her identity stays front and center.
After so many dynamic turns, the album finds its quiet heart in “A Couple Minutes.” This hushed interlude arrives near the end like a held breath—the eye of the storm where everything pauses. Dean’s voice emerges in soft relief, virtually unaccompanied or with only the barest of piano chords to cradle it. The noise of life fades to the background for these two short minutes of raw vulnerability. There’s a beautiful irony in the title: a couple of minutes of solitude. Here, Dean reminds us (and perhaps herself) that the art of loving often lives in moments of calm, in the silence between the dramas. The way she sings in a near-whisper makes you lean in, hanging on every word. It’s an intimate confessional scene—just two hands at the piano again by the finale. By returning to that stripped-down simplicity, Dean brings the album’s emotional arc full circle. We started with the illusion of closeness in “Loud” and ended with true closeness to herself in “A Couple Minutes.” It’s as if she’s saying that after all the searching—the dates and dances, the heartaches and epiphanies—she’s learned to find peace in her own company. It’s a quietly powerful moment that resonates long after the music stops, a gentle inhale before life’s noise returns.
Olivia Dean manages to weigh love’s many facets without losing a cohesive thread. Despite the album’s range of styles, a consistent emotional core binds them together. Part of that is Dean’s voice—a warm, expressive alto that functions like the narrator tying each chapter of the story. Part of it is her songwriting focus: whether she’s singing about the thrill of new connection, the ache of miscommunication, or the contentment of solitude, she approaches each topic with vulnerability and clear-eyed insight. She’s not rushing to hand out answers. Dean poses questions—What do we owe each other in love? What do we owe ourselves?—and let the songs explore them organically. While the sound is modern and at times glossy, it mainly serves those questions rather than drowning them out. The interplay of her neo-soul roots and contemporary R&B gloss gives the record much of its character. Dean has cited a broad mix of influences, and you can tell—her debut was steeped in Memphis soul and Motown hues, and here she folds those into a 2025-ready R&B sound without feeling like she’s chasing trends. Messy (her first album) established Dean as a singular voice in UK soul; The Art of Loving pushes that vision forward. She’s refining her style, yes, but not sanitizing it. And underpinning everything is that overarching question she gently poses: can true love be found in the solitude we learn to cherish?
Dean suggests that maybe it can—or at least, that learning to be alone is part of learning to love. It’s a mature, nuanced message that sneaks up on you through all these catchy tunes and heartfelt verses that doesn’t set out to astonish with vocal fireworks or shocking revelations; instead, it charms and disarms you with its honesty. Olivia Dean sounds confident but never cocky, vulnerable but never fragile—an artist finding strength in her own understanding. The album might not reinvent neo-soul or R&B, but it doesn’t need to. Dean’s gift is in how she makes these explorations of love feel real, like pages from a diary you can’t help but see yourself in. By balancing soulful roots with a contemporary sheen, she has crafted a record that’s equally suited for a reflective solo listen or a relaxed evening gathering. It’s warm, inviting, and ever-so-slightly bittersweet—much like love itself.
Great (★★★★☆)
Favorite Track(s): “Lady Lady,” “So Easy (To Fall in Love),” “A Couple Minutes”