Aaliyah is releasing new music this month. Yes, you read that right: the Princess of R&B, who tragically passed away two decades ago, will be unveiling Unstoppable, a new album with never-before-heard vocals from the vault. Barry Hankerson, her uncle and the owner of her catalogue, is the architect of the project, news of which has been met with raised eyebrows in addition to condemnation from the late star’s estate. While the controversy surrounding Aaliyah’s catalogue has been ongoing for years, the “new” album’s upcoming release opens an opportunity to consider posthumous albums as a concept, creative integrity, and how we relate to our favourite artists.

“At times, the wishes of the artists we revere conflict with the public’s stated desire to honour late musicians”

In Aaliyah’s case, the album’s collaborators – confirmed to include Snoop Dogg, The Weeknd and Chris Brown, among others – are a major reason for the disapproval. Some have expressed disappointment at the fact that an entire generation of women in R&B, influenced by Aaliyah, was denied the opportunity to pay tribute to the icon by appearing on the record. Brown’s inclusion in particular, given his lengthy record of abuse in romantic relationships, has made fans bristle given Aaliyah’s own history. But the album’s features point to a deeper issue: any project pieced together posthumously will have considerably less, if any, input from the creative whose name it bears. This issue around artistic integrity was a prime concern of artist Anderson .Paak, who last year tattooed on his arm: “When I’m gone, please don’t release any posthumous albums or songs with my name attached. Those were just demos and never intended to be heard by the public.”

We see here that at times, the wishes of the artists we revere conflict with the public’s stated desire to honour late musicians. Posthumous releases as tribute are perhaps most common when an artist has a project ready or nearing completion and intends to release it, only to pass away suddenly – an instance which has produced some of the most iconic records of all time. Take for example 1997’s Life After Death, which was embraced as a classic and solidified The Notorious B.I.G.’s legacy after its release, two weeks after his murder. Unstoppable, on the other hand, to be launched almost 21 years after Aaliyah’s death, can be seen as little else than an exploitative venture, one which reopens tender wounds and is banking on Gen Z’s well-documented nostalgia for turn-of-the-century pop culture.

“A phenomenon wherein public figures are never allowed to rest in peace, and instead are doomed to stay in performance mode forever”

While albums released after an artist’s passing aren’t new, they do seem to have ramped up in recent years. The untimely passing of rapper Juice WRLD in 2019 sent shockwaves through the hip-hop community, particularly as it followed a string of deaths of young rappers, many of whom had broached struggles with addiction and mental health in their music. The two albums released posthumously under his name both garnered critical acclaim. Pop Smoke’s murder in 2020 was equally heartbreaking, especially because his budding career was so promising. The Brooklyn rapper’s debut album came a few months after his death, and a second followed last year, but to little applause: Faith, which featured a collaboration with pop starlet Dua Lipa, was widely decried by fans and critics alike as a disingenuous cash grab. An uncomfortable pattern emerges: how often this kind of creative excavation affects artists who died young, especially Black artists. Very often, exploitation prior to or during their burgeoning careers, be it personal or financial, is involved; factors like previous poverty or ongoing addictions are common. Often, the musicians in question passed at a time before they had fully come to grips with the expectations attached to global fame.

Bleaker still, new avenues to cling onto departed idols continue to pop up as technology develops. The likenesses of deceased musicians have even been taken on tour in hologram form. This kind of digital resurrection has typically been met with open unease; Prince famously called holograms “demonic”, and the ex-husband of Amy Winehouse, whose estate planned to mount a hologram tour for the late soul singer, condemned them as a “money-making gimmick.” In an insightful piece for Refinery29 on Whitney Houston’s posthumous tour, Brooke Obie denounces this kind of post-mortem puppetry as “zombification”, a phenomenon wherein public figures are never allowed to rest in peace, and instead are doomed to stay in performance mode forever.

In her article, Obie poses a question that fans too often fail to consider: “What right do any of us have to demand that our deceased heroes, loved ones, or anyone else have their bodies and voices reanimated – especially in defiance of their living wishes – to act as zombies for our entertainment?” While it’s easy to condemn dodgy executives or shady relatives, these initiatives continue to bring in tidy profits. This arguably says a lot about what we as consumers expect from musicians, even in death: endless giving – the intimate details of their lives, a steady flow of content, and eternal gratitude to their adoring fans. To expect artists to be in service to us in perpetuity is a lot to ask, and while the topic is understandably sensitive, allowing beloved musicians to rest in peace is a small compromise to make for those whose art means so much to us.