This stylistic and emotional maturation is a big part of the narrative the Chainsmokers tell about themselves as party bros made good. The first lines we hear on the album are an apology: “You know I’m sorry,” sings a wounded, suspicious Taggart, sounding more like an emo singer than a superstar DJ, and it sets the brooding tone for an album preoccupied with breakups and betrayals. Musically,Memories… Do Not Openis of a piece with all of their output post-“Roses,” the single that marked their big shift. There are no big-room bangers, no concussive drops, no coked-up-mosquito-with-a-vuvuzela synth riffs.DiploandSkrillex’s big hit forJustin Bieber, “Where Are Ü Now,” serves as the template for their pneumatic pads and processed vocals. With few exceptions—like “Break Up Every Night,” a peppy pop-rock number that could be a more caffeinatedMAGIC!, or “Last Day Alive,” which features the country duo Florida Georgia Line in the musical equivalent of a poster of fighter jets—the duo and their 32 credited co-writers keep the tempos slow and the moods muted. It is an anodyne pop record for a post-EDM world, one where trap and trop-house mix with pale imitations of theMigosflow andColdplay’s cornball sentimentality. None of it sounds anything like “#SELFIE,” but its worldview is barely any bigger than that song's narrow perspective; toggling between cheap thrills and bitter recriminations with all the emotional stakes of a drunken beach fight caught on Snapchat.