Divide

This is a polished, well-executed effort from one of the hardest-working men in music.

His latest album is as likeable as he seems in interviews: assured but unassuming and sometimes hard to fathom.

Division is by far Sheeran’s smoothest collection.

As calculating as Sheeran can seem here, he understands there’s a fine line between universal and generic, which is why he gives his songs the idiosyncratic touches they need to stand out.

Throughout the record, Sheeran seems assured in his smooth schtick, and that cheesy confidence, combined with the hints of new style, help make Divide his easiest album to enjoy.

These songs are more believable--touching, even, if you’re not put off by the milky expressiveness of his voice--than the multiple attempts at rapping.

Maybe he (and it will be a he) should approach ÷ with more of an open mind, because it’s packed full of tunes that have an undeniable quality and mark the point where Ed Sheeran goes truly stratospheric. It’s less ÷, more conquer.

A batteries-fully-charged assault on the pop charts from a performer skilled in musical osmosis.

If the familiarity of the album bodes well for its commercial success, key elements of Sheeran’s schtick don’t add up creatively. Despite the wrinkles of wit and flashes of detail in his writing, he’s horribly sentimental, idealizing love into anonymity in a song actually called “Perfect,” as well as one titled “How Would You Feel (Paean).”

Listening to this third LP, you wonder if some of the good ones slipped through the cracks. [May 2017, p.102]

By pop standards you could do a lot worse, but ÷ is not an album that will test the ceiling of Sheeran’s tantalizing potential.

At best, we have a middling collection of songs that are going to sound great in a packed arena. At worst, it’s a pretty significant step back from X, and once the initial novelty of its release wears off, it’s unlikely to enjoy the popular acclaim or the longevity of its predecessor.

Each passing cycle saps a little more life from the record, until we’re left with background music, fluff that goes in one ear and out the other. That includes the lyrics, which run the gamut from sentimental, to rote, to downright creepy.

This is a slick, potent album--one that reeks of nostalgia and comfort, campfires, scented candles, spilt pints of Guinness and, for those not enthralled by his algorithmic songcraft, the sharp stench of a salesman’s cheap cologne.

He has made the most anodyne and bland pop album possible.