Zombified Talent: Exploring the Ethics of Posthumous Records

Reboots and nostalgia bait plague the ether of nearly every media space, and posthumous records have become a focal point for endless debate and enjoyment among music listeners. My first experience with music beyond the grave was the 2010 Michael Jackson release Michael. At the time, my 10 year old brain couldn’t fathom the ethics of creating an album from the scraps of an artist's hard work. However, as I grew up and these releases became more prevalent, I began to wonder whether the labels selling these patchwork albums understood the potential damage to an artist's legacy.

A legacy is built by hand; each album is like a brick in that wall. So, when listening to an album, we aren’t just listening to music; we’re taking in the artist's hard work. They’re allowing us a peek into their personal world. Their personality and values are on full display and oftentimes they use their music as a means for escape. These aspects of art are essential to what art truly is. Without that living, breathing spirit attached to it, the work feels hollow. This is why in many cases posthumous records are ill received. Though the label may polish and prime it for release, the finishing touch of the original artist's spirit is missing. But it wasn’t always viewed that way. 

Dating back to the 19th century, posthumous records were commonplace—with composers like Beethoven and Chopin, and many others, having some of their most popular works released years after their deaths. But in recent years, with the invitation of streaming and complex recording devices, these records have become a contentious topic. In short, posthumous projects are a hit or miss. Arguably, hits include Circles by Mac Miller and Johnny Cash's Unearthed, while others like Loyal to the Game by Tupac became legendary misses. 

Circles and Unearthed were nearly finished in Miller and Cash’s lifetimes. Both recorded and written works that, after their artist’s passing, family and/or friends touched up and released to send off their loved ones. Circles is pristine, and was a great way to close out Miller’s career. The album felt fully realized where many posthumous records struggle to have the same sense of completion. Unlike Circles, Loyal to the Game was entirely produced by Eminem, which many say missed the heart of what Tupac’s music was all about. These albums set the stage for the good, the bad and the ugly of “gravestone music.”

NPR music critic Ann Powers categorizes posthumous records into three groups: "warm to the touch," "the infinite vault" and "potpourri."

"Warm to the touch" refers to music released relatively close to the artist's passing. When this music is released, listeners often divide into two factions: those outraged by what feels like a Weekend at Bernie's approach to releases, and those excitedly anticipating vault tracks from their favorite artists. For some, it offers a final glimpse into the artist's mind. But is this glimpse worth having? 

The "infinite vault" category applies to prolific artists whose extensive catalogs of completed and demoed tracks are refined by labels for sale. This category includes artists like Tupac and Jimi Hendrix—known workaholics who amassed tons of tracks during their lifetimes. These releases appear to be the least offensive because they typically only require a bit of touching up before release. 

"Potpourri" describes arguably the lowest tier: labels scrape the bottom of the barrel from an artist’s vault to find remnants of tracks that can be spliced together. Powers points to The Doors' album An American Prayer as an example, stating, “I think that just never really needed to exist.” Potpourri is intended to be pleasant but often lacks substance—consisting of demo recordings and half-baked ideas the artist might have revisited while alive. 

After the artist's death, these incomplete works are salvaged and assembled into something that might not reflect their original vision. Tyler, the Creator recently expressed this sentiment during his Call Me If You Get Lost performance last year:

“I have in my will that if I die, they can’t put no f*cking [posthumous] album out. That’s f*cking gross—like, half-a*s ideas and some random feature from someone I didn’t f*ck with. Like, no.” 

This concern becomes particularly relevant with artists like SOPHIE, who had a massive following and significant legacy but passed away unexpectedly. In September, a new record was released in her name, differing from other posthumous records in how it was created. Her family and friends made a concerted effort to preserve her unique sound and legacy. Her brother, who often collaborated with her, also worked on the record. They aimed to release a true SOPHIE album without her physical presence.

The album sounds fine, with all the expected soundscapes of a SOPHIE album, but without the heart she put into her music. Many tracks feel empty or incomplete, and during my listen, I often felt unimpressed by the textures of the instrumentation. But, again, this is almost to be expected with posthumous records; the lack of heart makes the work feel a bit bland. However, the pressing question here is not whether the record is good, but whether her fans needed a new album in the first place.

While this issue may seem straightforward, it becomes more complex when considering our society's obsession with nostalgia. Nostalgia often drives the release of these records. When an artist dies, their streams inevitably spike, but that spike is a response to nostalgia—not new music.

Nostalgia is rooted in past experiences, memories and artifacts. For artists like SOPHIE, who passed away young, their existing music continues to resonate with fans. But the desire for new music can feel less like nostalgia and more like a violation of the artist's legacy. Fans can easily engage their nostalgia by rewatching old concert videos or listening to past albums. However, the release of new music posthumously can sever that connection. Yet, the parasocial relationships formed during the artist's lifetime may compel fans to purchase the latest record, even if it falls short of what the artist might have intended.

In life, an artist ideally has the most creative control over their art. But in death, the label gets to take a larger bite into who that artist was. Fans are constantly looking for the next bit of content from their favorite artists, but to what end? Should music make it beyond the grave, or is it better secured in the vault? 

Artists like Ed Sheeran and Dolly Parton have records saved for their passing, but not everyone feels their art should surpass their own life. When an artist interacts with their own work, that’s what makes it art. Music without the artist's vision, alive and present, becomes something else entirely.