My Dear Melancholy,

Over the last five years, Abel Tesfaye has publicly executed a sort of artistic evolution-in-reverse, inching away from the oily R&B aesthetic that propelled his initial ascent as the Weeknd in order to seek pure pop omnipresence. And who can blame him? The early releases collected on 2012’s triple-disc blowout Trilogy cast a long shadow of influence over modern pop, for better and worse. The mood those mixtapes captured—horny, druggy, and downright miserable, like a never-ending bender—was overbearing in a way that could suffocate creative growth, and eventually it did: 2013’s Kiss Land doubled down on Trilogy’s aesthetic received a tepid response critically and commercially. Just a few years into his career, it seemed like Tesfaye had already hit a creative dead-end.

What followed was, even in this transparently careerist era of pop music, a fascinatingly direct dilution of the Weeknd’s brand. Big-deal pop wizards like Max Martin and Diplo started sharing production credits alongside O.G. Weeknd collaborators Illangelo and Doc McKinney. And Tesfaye, who was once content to exploit anonymity as a marketing tool, could now be seen shamelessly mugging in a tux in a promotional tie-in for one of the most successful erotic dramas of all time.

Increasingly, the Weeknd’s musical output resembled a Seussian randomness: You could hear him over a trop-house beat, choral hair-metal, starry-eyed new wave, and lilting filter-disco. 2015’s Beauty Behind the Madness was a bombastic Event Record streaked with aspirations of Grammy gold; the following year’s Starboy pushed his newfound eclecticism into the red, a try-anything-once album that doubled as the Weeknd’s longest LP to date. Dreams of Michael Jackson abounded on both records, to a sometimes comical extreme: Watch Tesfaye literally bursting into flames in the video for “Can’t Feel My Face,” and try not to think of when MJ’s hair caught on fire while filming a Pepsi commercial in 1984.

The knowingly crass gambit—Tesfaye losing his sense of self in the service of increased image awareness—worked. As of this writing, Beauty Behind the Madness is triple-platinum, with Starboy certified double. Following all this eclecticism, the Weeknd’s latest project, My Dear Melancholy, turns Tesfaye’s gaze back to the project’s earlier, more morose material.

Many have speculated that the album’s six tracks of downcast, bleary-eyed electronic pop are direct responses to Tesfaye’s recent split with pop star Selena Gomez, and there’s certainly enough for celeb-gawkers to chew on in that respect. But the record’s title and contents could also be interpreted as Tesfaye’s sign of affection for the moody music that he made his name on—a love letter to the aesthetic past he left behind.

If old habits die hard, though, then so do new routines, and My Dear Melancholy, finds Tesfaye trapped in a middle ground between where he came from and where he is right now. As it was with his last two records, the production list is moneyed and well-respected: Skrillex, Nicolas Jaar, Daft Punk’s Guy-Manuel de Homem-Cristo, and Mike WiLL Made-It are among the collaborators here, adding new wrinkles to Tesfaye’s ever-expanding sonic palette.

Skrillex continues pursuing his recent 2-step fascination with “Wasted Times,” featuring a breakdown that seems tailor-made for a capable UK Garage flip; the pained nihilism of “Privilege” takes on a subtle bloom in the hands of Frank Dukes (Lorde, Camila Cabello), with a pleasingly wordless chorus that emerges in the song’s final third. Arguably, the production has always been the most interesting element of the Weeknd as a project, and these highlights showcase Tesfaye’s still-sharp ear for cool, contemporary sounds.

When My Dear Melancholy, does recall Tesfaye’s creative past, it serves to illuminate the project’s weaknesses. It’s impossible not to hear the pronounced “Call Out My Name” as a redux of Beauty Behind the Madness’ “Earned It.” On “Hurt You,” Homem-Cristo and fellow Frenchman Gesaffelstein draw from the same well that produced Starboy’s title track and “I Feel It Coming,” but fail to match the radiance of either.

Simply put, it’s too early in this stage of Tesfaye’s career to so obviously attempt to replicate past glories. While My Dear Melancholy, makes for a slight curio in the Weeknd’s discography, it also feels like an unnecessary step backwards following the down-for-whatever approach of his recent work. There’s nothing wrong with reflecting on the past, but sometimes it’s better to just leave it there.

Correction: An original version of this review mislabeled the album as an EP.