Sean Leon is the fully independent rising talent from Toronto, Canada, who made his way onto Apple Music curated playlists last year with his ferocious song, “Vintage,” from his album, “C.C.W.M.T.T.” (“Can’t Come With Me This Time”). This was his first exposure in the mainstream, and he has since sprinkled sporadic EP and single releases. With little to no warning. Leon has released an alternative soundtrack of his journey as an artist called, “Sean Leon (The Death Of)” (TDO), which achieved platinum status 24 hours after release, an unheard-of achievement for an artist with zero management.

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Capping out at just around 32 minutes, the soundtrack was first released as one song, emphasizing the importance of viewing the project holistically. Transitions between the segments (later discretely separated on a 12-track version of the project) are inconspicuously blended. As a slight departure from previous work, pure lyricism rests easily on the back burner while cohesive production serves as the primary guide. This is by no means an indictment; every component of the project serves its purpose (although the purpose they serve may not be immediately apparent). The entire endeavor is a huge creative risk, with no such precedent to even compare, and could have easily been catastrophic. Thankfully, TDO holds its own remarkably well.

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TDO certainly starts off very strong: an organ cascades as Leon describes a dream of his. He’s in his studio, the “sun is beaming through” the window, he can “hear street noise” but “it isn’t noise, it’s more like a score.” This breaks into a funk-trap fusion, “90 Bpm”; the soft falsetto mantra “I think I fell again,” iterates with a melancholic joy. The idea of making a mistake by falling in love seems to be a likely interpretation given the tonal 180 on the following track, “Iceberg Slim” — a vicious, hi-hat-studded trap record dictating his detachment from relationships because he “can’t lose” and others would just “slow [him] down.”

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Apparently, Leon’s detachment worked, as the two following tracks, “Bank Account” and “Food.Chain,” (though somewhat dully repetitive) reek of attained wealth and success. Something is off, however. Crescendos are unfulfilled, strongly indicating that the detachment has taken a toll. “If I Could Be With You,” completely reinvigorates the heart of the project, with instrumentals highly reminiscent of 2015-Kaytranada’s pulsing synths and contagious basslines.

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At this point Leon has everything, but the warped vocals that follow on, “Close My Eyes When I’m Dead,” characterize his compulsory hunger: “Both my eyes are strained, bleeding red / I’ll close my eyes when I’m dead.” Success for Leon remains bittersweet. There’s a disconnection felt between himself and everyone who now knows of him. They aren’t the ones who came up with him, “They Don’t Know [his] Story.” They aren’t permanent; he knows that “it’s all love until it’s not love.”

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The third act begins with airy incantations (“it’s me and you [...] don’t cry, just breathe [...] it will be fine”) meant to assure whomever he has distanced from. “Gone” displays further unraveling over an eerie piano: “demons live inside” and Leon “ain’t had no help.” His fears creep in; “They don’t love you until you’re gone” becomes increasingly ominous with each oration, especially considering recent deaths in hip-hop. In the final segment, “The Death Of,” Sean Leon expands on the dream that began the album. “[He’s] staring at [himself] / [he] can’t be sure because [he] can’t see [his] face.” It looks like him, but he never gets close enough to know. He’s physically separated from what he thinks is him. The fatal interpretation of being “gone” is not literal. It’s figurative. And the dream highlights his deepest fear: that he really did “make [his] dreams [his] real life” — that he has lost himself to gain everything he ever wanted.