Maya Hawke describes Maitreya Corso as an effort to keep greed and ego out of the creative process; protect the precious from the poisonous. It’s a noble intention, and one that should, in theory, result in a focused, deliberate record. Instead, the album sounds overstuffed and self-indulgent in ways that work directly against its stated purpose. For all its talk of protection and clarity, Maitreya Corso is cluttered, both sonically and lyrically, reaching for profundity but landing somewhere closer to overreach.

The production, handled by Hawke alongside Christian Lee Hutson, Benjamin Lazar Davis, and Jonathan Low, is technically assured. The instrumentation is rich and textured, leaning into a folk-pop palette that should feel warm and inviting. And in moments, it does. “Love of My Life” opens with bright, buoyant energy, country-pop twang. “Heavy Rain” strips things back to guitar and harmonies, finding beauty in simplicity. “Bring Home My Man” works for the same reason: it’s tender, uncluttered, just her voice and a guitar. These are the moments where Hawke sounds most at home.

But those moments are the exception. More often, the album feels weighed down by its own ambition. Songs are packed with competing elements—layered vocals, swelling strings, off-kilter rhythms—that are incredibly distracting. “Devil You Know” is a prime example. The clapping in the background feels slightly off-beat, the talking-rap style forced and unnatural. It’s only when the song quiets near the end, when it’s mostly just Hawke and the instruments, that it finally breathes. That should’ve been the whole song.

The lyrical approach compounds the problem. Hawke has a habit of packing in every euphemism and popular phrase she can find, stringing them together without transforming them into something new. “Lioness” gives us “thorn in her paw,” “fuck with me and you’re gonna find out,” “I work in mysterious ways.” “Terms of Estrangement” throws out “choose your fighter,” “losing your cool,” “packed the car to the gills.” These phrases aren’t repurposed or reimagined, they’re filler masquerading as wordplay. It feels cheap, like she’s reaching for readymade language instead of earning her own.

There’s also the question the album keeps circling back to: “What if I got what I wanted?” It’s a vulnerable thing to ask, and Hawke deserves credit for the openness. But it’s hard not to feel the friction when you’re listening to someone who was born into privilege wonder aloud about alternate paths. “Great Minds” makes this tension most explicit, with lines like “I wanted to grow up to be just like you / it never was an option” that feel less like the mythical Maitreya Corso speaking and more like Hawke herself stepping into frame. The scrutiny that comes with her background is real, and she’s clearly aware of it. But awareness alone doesn’t resolve the discomfort.

Maitreya Corso is Hawke’s most ambitious record to date, and there’s value in the attempt. She’s pushing past the safety of her earlier work, trying to build something larger and more conceptually daring. But ambition without restraint just becomes noise. The album needed an editor, someone to pull back the excess and let the stronger ideas come into focus. As it stands, it’s a record that talks about protecting the creative process while burying itself under the weight of too many choices.

Order Maitreya Corso by Maya Hawke HERE