By Mary Thurmond | Photo Editor
Tyler, the Creator has never been one to follow the musical norms, and once again, it’s apparent in his newest album, Don’t Tap the Glass.
Released on Monday morning, Tyler creates a full-on 28-minute sprint that’s less about storytelling and more about music. He expressed the idea behind this album in a recent Instagram post.
“I asked some friends why they don’t dance in public, and some said because of the fear of being filmed,” Tyler wrote. “I thought, damn, a natural form of expression and a certain connection they have with music is now a ghost. It made me wonder how much of our human spirit got killed because of the fear of being a meme, all for having a good time.”
Clearly, this album isn’t made for sitting still. Tyler himself described it as “made for body movement. Full volume.” Let’s dive into these dance-inducing tracks.
The album opens with chaos: distorted brass, static and Tyler’s voice arriving mid-sentence. “Big Poe” draws clear lines to “NEW MAGIC WAND” and “OKRA,” with its loud, glitchy unpredictability. It’s messy on purpose and completely confident in its bravado. The opening feels almost like a nod to Radiohead’s “Fitter Happier.” Pharrell’s feature isn’t surprising, but it hits perfectly, especially layered over the sample from Busta Rhymes’s “Pass the Courvoisier, Part II.“
Easily one of the album’s standout tracks, “Sugar On My Tongue” has Tyler at his flirtiest. He compares his lover to candy in a way that’s catchy and clever without being cliché. The production mixes G-Funk synths with vocoder textures that harken back to early 2000s Pharrell and Timbaland. This feels like a more grown-up, confident cousin to “Glitter.” This one will have you moving.
“Sucka Free” is punchy and full of flexes. It’s aggressive but fun, riding distorted basslines and an occasional playful autotuned vocal delivery. Tyler throws shade at superficiality with sharp lines like, “You the type to buy a chain before some furniture, couch.” The vibe falls somewhere between “Tamale” and “Flower Boy,” mixing chaos with polish. This track is meant to be played full blast while driving with the windows down.
Clocking in at just over a minute, “Mommanem” is raw and emotional beneath its bounce. Tyler mutters, “Bro, I’m in my feelings,” before diving into a chant that feels like he’s trying to shake off old wounds: “Hit it out, spit it out, get it out—that’s on my mama ’nem.”
The track feels almost like therapy through repetition. It’s a hard hitter, especially with lines about being emotionally let down: “I done gave some shoulders they could drop a tear on / But when my eyes get muggy, they get disappear on.” Minimal production keeps the focus on his delivery, making this one of the more vulnerable moments on the record, but surprisingly, the least liked so far.
In “Stop Playing With Me,” Tyler sounds confrontational, yet remains locked into the rhythm. The beat is stripped down, boom-bap style, bringing early ’90s freestyle energy that feels raw and intentional. It echoes the intensity of “Yonkers,” but trades out nihilism for a sharper, more playful bite. His delivery is tight and charismatic, laced with confidence rather than rage. “I’m the one they film when they scared to dance,” he spits, calling back to the album’s core theme of self-expression in the face of judgment.
“Ring Ring Ring” is a quirky, retro R&B jam that explores communication breakdowns with humor and charm. Tyler pleads for connection, singing “I know you said not to call you again, but I miss you,” over funky house-pop production. It feels like “911 / Mr. Lonely” meets “Channel Tres,” with a little bit of OutKast’s “Speakerboxxx/The Love Below.” Tyler plays both sentimental crooner and monotone Lothario, creating a refreshing contrast.
This next two-part track, “Don’t Tap That Glass / Tweakin’,” starts with a chant-heavy warning: “Don’t tap that glass, there’s a monster in it.” Halfway through, it flips into chaotic glitch-rap. The structure recalls past two-parters like “Gone, Gone / Thank You.” The metaphor of glass as vulnerability is woven into both lyrics and sound, urging us not to disturb what they don’t understand.
Warm and inviting, this next duet with Madison McFerrin offers a breath of softness in the back half of the album. In “Don’t You Worry Baby,” her smooth vocals deliver lines like “I got time and I’ma give it to you / I’ll give you the world before you fall asleep,” while Tyler jumps in with playful background chants like “Damn girl, you better move your hips.” It blends the comfort of Quiet Storm R&B with the groove of Miami bass. Equal parts sexy and reassuring.
This one is all distorted tenderness. Tyler repeats the title, “I’ll Take Care of You,” like a mantra, offering devotion through instability, as if he’s trying to convince both us and himself. The production blends soft synth textures with samples from Cherry Bomb and Crime Mob’s “Knuck If You Buck,” creating a push-pull dynamic that feels equally romantic and volatile. It’s a compelling mix of vulnerability and chaos, where love sounds less like a safe haven and more like a battlefield.
The track feels like Mac Miller’s “Knock Knock” meets Kanye West’s “808s & Heartbreak,” but filtered through Tyler’s distinct style. The layers of static and vocal distortion give it a dreamlike quality, as if you’re falling in love while the world around you unravels.
The album ends on a quiet, aching note with “Tell Me What It Is.” Tyler’s voice softens as he turns inward, asking existential questions he never really answers. “Mama, I’m a millionaire but I’m feelin’ like a bum / I can buy the galaxy / But can’t afford to look for love.” This track doesn’t offer closure, and it’s not trying to. Instead, it leaves us in a suspended moment of reflection. It echoes the tone of songs like “Answer” and “Are We Still Friends?” but with less resolution and more emotional openness.
“Don’t Tap the Glass” feels like a project that’s meant to be experienced, not picked apart. It isn’t trying to tell one story or follow a formula. Instead, it captures movement, emotion and instinct.
