REVIEW: YUNGBLUD - Idols

YUNGBLUD has always felt like a storm. From the moment Dominic Harrison burst into public consciousness - smudged eyeliner, tartan trousers, fists raised in the name of the outcast - he was a whirlwind of noise, chaos, and contradiction. At just 26, he’s amassed a global cult following by fusing punk, pop, and vulnerability into a space that speaks directly to the disillusioned. For many, YUNGBLUD became more than a musician—he became a lifeline, a mirror, a manifesto.

But what happens when the lifeline starts to fray? When the persona fractures under the pressure of grief, fame, and fatigue?

Idols, YUNGBLUD’s fourth studio album, is the sound of that unravelling. The mask doesn’t slip for the sake of drama, or a refresher, or because it got boring - it falls because it’s simply too heavy to hold. Gone are the spiky anthems built for festival stages. In their place are whispered confessions, moments of aching quiet, and the rare bravery of simply being still. This isn’t his loudest record, but it’s the most truthful. And possibly his best.

'Hello Heaven, Hello' opens the album like a quiet procession. Over sparse piano and unsteady vocals, Harrison delivers a eulogy not just for someone else, but for himself. The grief is unfiltered - it hangs in every pause, every breath, every note he nearly doesn’t sing.

'Idols Pt. 1' follows like a smudged photograph of a self in crisis. More spoken word than song, it dissects the emotional toll of visibility. This blurring of image and identity reverberates throughout the record - and nowhere is it more haunting than on 'Lovesick Lullaby'. A gothic waltz drenched in romantic ruin, the track explores love as both comfort and confinement. The melody sways; the emotions bleed out beneath it.

Then comes 'Zombie', the album’s bleakest moment. It’s numb, drained, and eerily still. “I’m not alive, I’m not in pain,” Harrison sings, with the distant tone of someone watching his own life from across the room. There’s no explosion, no climax - just quiet surrender. It’s one of the most effective portrayals of shutdown in recent memory. 'The Greatest Parade' follows, but not to offer relief. Instead, it spirals into surrealism. Drenched in distortion and carnival dread, the track turns fame into grotesque theatre. Applause becomes accusation. Confetti feels like forensic dust. Harrison sounds like he’s performing the version of himself the world expects - resentfully, bitterly, brilliantly.

'Change' and 'Monday Murder' keep that defiance alive. Gritty, breathless, and sharp-edged, they sound furious - but underneath the noise is exhaustion. These aren’t anthems of uprising. They’re dispatches from someone fighting to stay upright. 'Ghosts' slows everything down again. It’s a song about absence; not just the kind left by death, but the invisible weight grief presses into every room. Stripped back and fragile, it doesn’t aim for closure. Instead, it settles into the silence, learning to live beside the missing. Not a ballad, not a breakdown - just a quiet, aching presence.

'Fire' and 'War' rekindle urgency, but it’s a smouldering kind of anger. 'Fire' pulses with sharp immediacy, while 'War' feels heavier, more resigned. The fury here doesn’t feel victorious - it’s the last gasp of someone cornered by burnout. Harrison’s voice cracks where it counts, revealing everything the volume can’t hide. 'Idols Pt. 2' brings the arc to its inevitable collapse. Revisiting the album’s central tension between persona and person, it doesn’t resolve it so much as expose it. The line “You drew yourself a set of prison bars / On your painted scars / They’ll see you the way that you are” lands like a final, breathless admission. No polish, no apology. Just the hard truth of being seen too late.

Then there’s 'Supermoon'. The exhale. The aftermath. Barely tethered to melody, it drifts into space and never quite returns. There’s no crescendo. No final scream. Just atmosphere and absence. A soft fade to black.

What makes Idols so affecting isn’t just its themes, it’s the refusal to dress them up. There are no easy answers here, no romanticised redemption arcs. It embraces discomfort. It gives grief its full weight. It sounds like someone trying to find themselves without a spotlight and without screaming. This is not a record for crowds. It’s for the moments when you're alone with the version of yourself you don’t post. It’s bruised, imperfect, honest - and that’s what makes it remarkable. YUNGBLUD has spent years trying to be a saviour. On Idols, he just wants to be a person. And finally, he is.

Score: 9/10

Idols was released on June 20th 2025.

Words: Mia Gailey

Photos: YUNGBLUD