This Canadian pop-R&B star was in her teens when she broke through in 2015 and, per the title of her second album, has had to do some growing up in public, winning best new artist at this year’s Grammys then being castigated online for not being new enough. But while the constant emotional drama sketched out here suggests her innocence is long gone, there is still plenty of maturing left to do.

Very few artists are so conspicuously signed to a major label: the professionalism and market-readiness of this product are extremely high. This means the songwriting is often strong: Growing Pains gets two great chorus melodies, while I Don’t Want To resolves very satisfyingly. But there is some production that sounds suspiciously like focus-grouping, from post-Winehouse soul to xx guitars, and the ersatz digital instrumentation is as featureless as an overly filtered Instagram post.

The lyrics are even more of a mixed bag. The nadir is Nintendo Game, whose cuteness is inversely proportional to how long it’s been since you took your GCSEs: a cringeworthy series of similes comparing the trials of love to those in a video game. You can never unhear the way “Rainbow Road” is awkwardly shoved into the rhyme scheme. A shame, because the top line is properly catchy. As is Trust My Lonely, a tuneful and pleasantly skanking bit of pop-reggae, similarly undermined by the ghastly chorus line of its title, which unforgivably turns “lonely” into a noun and reads like a witless empowerment hashtag. All We Know, too, has one of the album’s best choruses, but its falling dominoes are a very familiar central image.

When she strips out the metaphors and sings plainly, she becomes much more affecting: complaining of “the land of hot takes / the spectacle of cut and paste” on the Jorja Smith-ish plea to God, 7 Days, or “stumbling into the palm of your hand” on A Little More, one of the sweet, raw, downbeat ballads that give this album a little grain.