There’s a quiet confidence running through F.I.G that immediately reframes expectations. This is not the glossy, hyper-engineered pop pivot some might anticipate from a former Disney Channel breakout, nor is it a continuation of the darker, urban-leaning textures flirted with as Skye Riley in Smile 2. Instead, Naomi Scott delivers one of the most assured pop-soul records in recent memory: an ’80s-tinged, emotionally intelligent body of work that feels both reverent and distinctly her own.
From the outset, F.I.G establishes its lineage. The DNA of Prince, Sade, Phil Collins, Janet Jackson, and Kate Bush is unmistakable – not in imitation, but in texture: the soft-focus synths, the restrained grooves, the way atmosphere is allowed to breathe. There are also more contemporary echoes – Blood Orange, Jessie Ware, Ariana Grande, Robyn, Christine and the Queens – but they’re filtered through Scott’s own introspective lens.
Conceptually, F.I.G is just as rich. The title operates on multiple levels: an acronym for “Fall Into Grace,” a nod to Scott’s middle name, and a literary reference to Sylvia Plath’s “The Bell Jar“, specifically the fig tree metaphor – each fruit representing a different possible life. That idea of fractured identity, of lives lived and unlived, becomes the album’s emotional backbone. These songs don’t just explore love; they explore the versions of ourselves we become within it, and the ones we leave behind.
Opening track “Hellbent” sets the tone beautifully. It’s a love song, but one tinged with obsession, its layered vocals cascading over a slow-burning groove. There’s something almost devotional in its intensity – Scott repeating her willingness to do anything for love – yet the production keeps it grounded, never tipping into melodrama. It’s a thesis statement: sensual, controlled, and emotionally complex.
“Sweet Nausea” follows like a fleeting aftershock. Barely two minutes long, it distills infatuation into something queasy yet addictive, cleverly reframing discomfort as desire. It’s minimal but effective, extending the album’s fixation on the physicality of emotion.
Then comes “Rhythm,” perhaps the album’s most quietly subversive moment. In a landscape dominated by maximalist pop, Scott leans into restraint, crafting a track that feels deliberately out of step with the mainstream. It’s about emotional limbo – the push and pull of wanting someone while knowing you shouldn’t – and her interplay with Johnny Yukon adds a conversational intimacy. Their voices intertwine in the chorus, not in harmony so much as in shared confusion, circling the idea of “rhythm” as both connection and dissonance.
The album’s emotional centrepiece arrives with “Cut Me Loose,” a sparse, soulful ballad about the slow erosion of a relationship. Scott resists the urge to dramatise; instead, she leans into quiet devastation. Lines like “It can’t be worse than waiting” land with particular weight, capturing that uniquely painful moment of anticipating heartbreak.
“Cherry” shifts gears sonically, drawing from ’90s R&B while maintaining the album’s cohesive softness. Its refrain – “If the cherry’s sweet it comes right off the bush / Don’t push” – is deceptively simple, a meditation on timing and surrender. There’s a subtle Jessie Ware-like elegance here, in how the song glides rather than insists.
“Best Kind” is where Scott’s personality bursts through most vividly. It’s the closest the album comes to autobiography, reframing perceived flaws as strengths with a wink of defiance. The ’80s-leaning guitar work gives it a sharper edge, and there’s a palpable sense of release in her delivery – like she’s finally letting herself be seen without apology.
That thread continues into “Bound,” a sleek, minimalist R&B track that feels like it could sit comfortably alongside Ariana Grande’s Positions era – albeit with a more introspective core. It’s understated but hypnotic, leaning into repetition as a form of emotional stasis.
“Losing You” is where the album’s retro influences crystallise most clearly. The synths swell with unmistakable ’80s melancholy, underscoring lyrics that accept heartbreak with a kind of resigned clarity. There’s no fight left here – just the quiet recognition that something is ending.
By the time we reach “Gracie,” the album folds inward. With its reference to Scott’s middle name, the track feels deeply self-reflective, almost like a conversation between different versions of herself. The line “I wish I had more of Gracie in my veins” suggests a longing for softness, for authenticity beneath the performance. It reframes the album’s earlier themes – the roles we play, the selves we construct – as both armour and limitation.
What makes F.I.G so compelling is its restraint. In an era where pop often equates impact with volume, Scott chooses subtlety. She trusts her voice – warm, textured, and emotionally precise – and allows her influences to inform rather than overshadow her. The result is a record that feels cohesive not just sonically, but philosophically.
More than anything, F.I.G is a statement of intent. Naomi Scott isn’t chasing trends or trying to redefine herself in reaction to her past; she’s simply stepping into a fuller version of who she already is. And in doing so, she’s delivered a record that feels both deeply personal and universally resonant – one of the strongest pop-soul releases in recent years, and a far cry from anything anyone expected.
FOUR STARS (OUT OF FIVE)
F.I.G is now available through Alter Music.
