There’s a difference between somebody writing songs about hard times and somebody sounding like they’ve actually lived every second of them. Atlus very much belongs in the latter camp, and “Art Of Letting Go” is the kind of record that proves it.
What’s clever here is that for all the polish, for all the obvious crossover appeal, for all the huge choruses and smart production choices, none of it ever feels fake. This is country music at its core, sure, but it pulls in pop, rock and other modern textures without once losing sight of the fact that the songs have to mean something first.
I actually came to some of this before. Back on 11 October 2025, I reviewed Atlus’ “Secondhand Smoke” EP, and six of those songs — “Secondhand Smoke,” “Devil Ain’t Done,” “IOD on YOU,” “Art Of Letting Go,” “Baby Momma” and “Break Me First” — turn up here again. But rather than making “Art Of Letting Go” feel overfamiliar, it does the opposite. Here, those songs sit inside a much broader and deeper statement, one that makes it clear this isn’t just a bloke with a few strong singles in him. This is someone building a proper body of work.
The opening “Secondhand Smoke” still lands with real force. It’s deeply personal and all the better for it, and when Atlus sings lines like “I don’t think I’ll ever have children” and “Nothing’s worse than hope,” you realise straight away this isn’t going to deal in platitudes. Usual country this is not.
“Devil Ain’t Done” follows, overtly pop in places but all the more harrowing for that contrast. That’s one of the things Atlus does especially well on this record: he dresses up some seriously bruised subject matter in melodies big enough to carry it into the distance. “Still Haven’t Stopped” is polished and supremely well done, the kind of track that makes mainstream ambition sound like a strength rather than a compromise.
Then there’s the title track, and the grief in “Art Of Letting Go” is palpable. You can hear why it gives the album its name. It aches, frankly. There’s a rawness to it that stops the whole record becoming too sleek, and that balance is one of its great strengths.
A lot of these songs feel like catharsis. “Hold My Liquor” certainly does, but it also has real crossover potential, while “Spare Key” sounds like stardom waiting to happen. Everything about it is huge. It’s got that rare knack of sounding vulnerable and ready for the radio at exactly the same time.
By this point one thing is impossible to ignore: Atlus is superb at writing choruses. “Sounds Like Alcohol” proves it again, and “Town Down” shows something else too — he really has a knack for making pain catchy. That sounds simple, but it really isn’t. Plenty of writers can make you sad. Plenty can make you sing along. Fewer can do both in the same breath.
“IOD on YOU” is one of the album’s most affecting moments, not least because there’s hope tangled up in all the family hurt and addiction that hangs over it. “Roses” offers something closer to a lighter moment, and it arrives at exactly the right time. This album knows when to lean in and when to give itself room to breathe.
“Break Me First” was a highlight before and it remains one here, while “In The City” has one of those lines that sticks immediately — “the vampires only come out at night” — even as the song itself feels like a proudly small-town anthem. That tension between escape and belonging runs right through this record.
“Guilty” is particularly strong too, built around the idea of finding the girl of your dreams but still feeling like maybe you don’t deserve nice things. It’s a brilliant concept because it says so much about the worldview running through these songs. Even happiness arrives with a shadow over its shoulder.
“Half The Bottle” flips the script again, all awash with 80s synth and sharp enough to contain one of the record’s best lines about regrets stacking up before you realise you’ve had too many. And “Baby Momma” closes the circle in a way that makes perfect sense: the stories here are about people left behind, hanging on, messing up, carrying scars, but somehow still being tied together by love.
That, really, is what makes “Art Of Letting Go” work so well. It’s personal without shutting anyone out. It’s modern without chasing trends. And it’s full of songs — proper songs — which is why it never feels like misery for misery’s sake. Atlus has made a record full of damage, honesty, melody and heart, and in doing so he sounds like an artist stepping into a much bigger space.
RATING 7.5/10
