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About Olivia Rodrigo

It is a sign of a deep lack of self-esteem in our American monoculture that when Olivia Rodrigo so recently became the biggest pop musician of the moment most writers tasked to interpret said phenomenon were by default so cynical about the music they live to represent to the world that they seemed totally unaware of the most obvious explanation, one so obvious that it’s almost childishly democratic: that she is simply the most naturally compelling new artist working in pop today.

Instead, they have cited elements of the music that are actually quite detrimental to its quality. Most pop-punk was weak, whiny, and obnoxiously self-involved when it was popular, and the fact that one of Olivia’s songs (“good 4 u”) sounds an awful lot like the good stuff (“Misery Business”) is indeed a sign of creative bankruptcy. That the album often sounds so much like Lorde, Taylor Swift, or Billie Eilish is only evidence of the pop machine’s greed-driven need for familiarity and the moments where these influences are truly overwhelming are the album’s least original and most incongruous. The truly teenage moments, despite their popularity with millennials and real teenagers alike, are out of touch and uninspired. I am a thirty-two year old man who also cannot parallel park, but I will never be able to relate to this kind of quirkiness in song if the singer is a rich teenager who claims in interviews that she pays for valet parking in order to avoid it.

Her relationship with Taylor Swift, whose influence is indeed all over every song on the album, seems destined to be tense, and Olivia performs best when her own creativity manages to escape it. “favorite crime” is essentially a Taylor Swift album track, imitative of Swift’s least incisive creative tendencies. “And I watched as you fled the scene / Doe-eyed as you buried me / One heart broke, four hands bloody,” writes Olivia, in the kind of mildly clever figurative imagery that makes the listener’s brain work to uncover a meaning that was already obvious, the kind of line Taylor writes in her weakest moments. The song’s apparent antecedent, “Victim,” performed live on Instagram in June of 2020, doesn’t sound like Taylor at all:

Let me be the victim of your perfect crime Bathe in my blood so I’m not the bad guy Yeah, I messed up so that you’ll mess up too I really want the blame to be on you So drive the knife in deep Make the victim bleed  

“Make the victim bleed.” It’s both unpretentiously direct and painfully deep. The imagery is vibrant and even specific enough to evoke centuries of high Catholic masochism without being at all complicated. Olivia’s best lyrics are indeed never detailed for their own sake, but calmly symbolic, referential of cultural archetypes, serving in the makeup of some more abstracted, weightier conceptual design.

Guilt, particularly of the religious kind, would seem to be her true creative center, a counterintuitive thought, given that so many of her songs officially released are so especially accusatory, to an empowering extent. But she always admits her doubt: “'Cause let’s be honest, we kinda do sound the same / Another actress / I hate to think that I was just your type” she says of her ex’s new girlfriend. Indeed every song on the album that is explicitly about heartbreak goes out of its way to acquit the criminal in one way or another, either implicitly or directly, describing situations that are as emotionally painful as they are understandable from both sides.

She knows, in other words, that her anger at the boy is both valid and unjustified, that her sadness is real but not at all unique. Her pain transcends by its lack of an honest target, and this is what makes her music relatable to all ages. Without quite saying it, through a contradictory combination of dedicated vulnerability and self-awareness she asks the universe–or God even–rather than the boy, why did this happen? Why does this happen and is it my fault? “Did I do something wrong?”

More than anywhere else, you can hear it in her voice. Though lots of different things can get in the way, this transcendent guilt sits in her voice as a sustained emotional power, shifting between a dull pain somewhere deep in her chest and a lump in her throat, lending sincere force and tragic significance to subject matter that most have interpreted as specifically teenaged and delightfully naive. Bruce Springsteen famously said that the first time he heard “Like a Rolling Stone,” Bob Dylan’s voice “sounded somehow simultaneously young and adult.” This is the kind of compliment disallowed to teenage girls by the use of the “you’re mature for your age” trope by predatory old men, which is a shame, because if anyone deserves to be called mature it’s a teenager who takes guilt seriously before they’ve really had a chance to even do anything wrong.

Maybe she has had her marvelously unanimous success because this pained emotional high is heavily tempered on SOUR, particularly in its singles, two of which drown it out in the bridge (“drivers license”, “deja vu”), and the third of which filters it through talk-singing and distorted yelling (“good 4 u”). Maybe this is why she switched out “Victim,” a song where she sings of her “guilty Catholic heart,” and pleads “make the victim me,” for “favorite crime.” It does seem almost too heavy for American pop, and maybe a little dab of it is all the industry’s recipe requires because America doesn’t know how to process a mature teenage girl in a healthy way. But it is the passion at the source of her talent and, although her album is not at all perfect, shines through like the burning sun at every opportunity.

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About Olivia Rodrigo

It is a sign of a deep lack of self-esteem in our American monoculture that when Olivia Rodrigo so recently became the biggest pop musician of the moment most writers tasked to interpret said phenomenon were by default so cynical about the music they live to represent to the world that they seemed totally unaware of the most obvious explanation, one so obvious that it’s almost childishly democratic: that she is simply the most naturally compelling new artist working in pop today.

Instead, they have cited elements of the music that are actually quite detrimental to its quality. Most pop-punk was weak, whiny, and obnoxiously self-involved when it was popular, and the fact that one of Olivia’s songs (“good 4 u”) sounds an awful lot like the good stuff (“Misery Business”) is indeed a sign of creative bankruptcy. That the album often sounds so much like Lorde, Taylor Swift, or Billie Eilish is only evidence of the pop machine’s greed-driven need for familiarity and the moments where these influences are truly overwhelming are the album’s least original and most incongruous. The truly teenage moments, despite their popularity with millennials and real teenagers alike, are out of touch and uninspired. I am a thirty-two year old man who also cannot parallel park, but I will never be able to relate to this kind of quirkiness in song if the singer is a rich teenager who claims in interviews that she pays for valet parking in order to avoid it.

Her relationship with Taylor Swift, whose influence is indeed all over every song on the album, seems destined to be tense, and Olivia performs best when her own creativity manages to escape it. “favorite crime” is essentially a Taylor Swift album track, imitative of Swift’s least incisive creative tendencies. “And I watched as you fled the scene / Doe-eyed as you buried me / One heart broke, four hands bloody,” writes Olivia, in the kind of mildly clever figurative imagery that makes the listener’s brain work to uncover a meaning that was already obvious, the kind of line Taylor writes in her weakest moments. The song’s apparent antecedent, “Victim,” performed live on Instagram in June of 2020, doesn’t sound like Taylor at all:

Let me be the victim of your perfect crime Bathe in my blood so I’m not the bad guy Yeah, I messed up so that you’ll mess up too I really want the blame to be on you So drive the knife in deep Make the victim bleed  

“Make the victim bleed.” It’s both unpretentiously direct and painfully deep. The imagery is vibrant and even specific enough to evoke centuries of high Catholic masochism without being at all complicated. Olivia’s best lyrics are indeed never detailed for their own sake, but calmly symbolic, referential of cultural archetypes, serving in the makeup of some more abstracted, weightier conceptual design.

Guilt, particularly of the religious kind, would seem to be her true creative center, a counterintuitive thought, given that so many of her songs officially released are so especially accusatory, to an empowering extent. But she always admits her doubt: “'Cause let’s be honest, we kinda do sound the same / Another actress / I hate to think that I was just your type” she says of her ex’s new girlfriend. Indeed every song on the album that is explicitly about heartbreak goes out of its way to acquit the criminal in one way or another, either implicitly or directly, describing situations that are as emotionally painful as they are understandable from both sides.

She knows, in other words, that her anger at the boy is both valid and unjustified, that her sadness is real but not at all unique. Her pain transcends by its lack of an honest target, and this is what makes her music relatable to all ages. Without quite saying it, through a contradictory combination of dedicated vulnerability and self-awareness she asks the universe–or God even–rather than the boy, why did this happen? Why does this happen and is it my fault? “Did I do something wrong?”

More than anywhere else, you can hear it in her voice. Though lots of different things can get in the way, this transcendent guilt sits in her voice as a sustained emotional power, shifting between a dull pain somewhere deep in her chest and a lump in her throat, lending sincere force and tragic significance to subject matter that most have interpreted as specifically teenaged and delightfully naive. Bruce Springsteen famously said that the first time he heard “Like a Rolling Stone,” Bob Dylan’s voice “sounded somehow simultaneously young and adult.” This is the kind of compliment disallowed to teenage girls by the use of the “you’re mature for your age” trope by predatory old men, which is a shame, because if anyone deserves to be called mature it’s a teenager who takes guilt seriously before they’ve really had a chance to even do anything wrong.

Maybe she has had her marvelously unanimous success because this pained emotional high is heavily tempered on SOUR, particularly in its singles, two of which drown it out in the bridge (“drivers license”, “deja vu”), and the third of which filters it through talk-singing and distorted yelling (“good 4 u”). Maybe this is why she switched out “Victim,” a song where she sings of her “guilty Catholic heart,” and pleads “make the victim me,” for “favorite crime.” It does seem almost too heavy for American pop, and maybe a little dab of it is all the industry’s recipe requires because America doesn’t know how to process a mature teenage girl in a healthy way. But it is the passion at the source of her talent and, although her album is not at all perfect, shines through like the burning sun at every opportunity.

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More about Olivia Rodrigo: On her Lyrics

Starting some time in 2018 or maybe a little earlier, Olivia Rodrigo began to play original songs, or more often pieces of songs, one verse and a chorus, apparently unfinished, for her followers on Instagram Live. She was about fifteen at the time, although one of the more complete songs (“Naive Girl”) can be confirmed to date back to 2014 or 2015, when she was twelve years old. I began to listen to these songs, all but one of which are available to hear conveniently compiled into a single twenty-five minute Youtube video, when my appetite for her music was only beginning to grow to its present size, after I had listened to the album on repeat for a good three or four days straight. They are the kind of thing only obsessive fans can really gush over, something akin to Bob Dylan’s early Minnesota Hotel Tape from 1961: badly recorded and casually created by a young artist who never intended them to be anything more than they are, a fun and easy way to show off their talent at a time when a wellspring of inspiration was already pouring forth with no better available outlet.  

These little pieces, however, establish finally for sure what a major label pop debut with other ambitions, no matter how special it may be, can only hint at, which is that something within her is driving a preternatural attention for detail, currently unmatched in it’s free naturalism, imaginative power, and consistency, only possibly consistent as a result of its being deeply possessed and long established, despite her youth. I have already touched on what I think that something may be in my first post about her. But whatever it is, it is immediately apparent in her performances here, an instinct that had already cemented deeply considered vocalization as her default, as a simple creative necessity, although a few of the earliest recordings have added even another layer of Broadway-like drama that has since been stripped away, I am guessing as a result of the nascent growth of some level of creative confidence.

Songwriting, then, is to some degree shown to be a third result of that engrained ability, after said holistic sincerity and its resultant vocal intuition, and yet a good chunk of the songs are lyrically composed as well with a just as holistically sincere and intuitive affect, presenting very well-understood conundrums, pared down to koan-like solids one would think by years of rumination. A few are, I would dare to say, more tightly constructed and figuratively multivalent than the songs on her album, many of which share their succinctness but not the violently prismatic irony that seems to be able to overpower the sincere creative drive that gave it life in its brightest inspired flashes. “drivers license” in fact excels by flattening that figurative prism into a simpler and more benign shape, allowing the casual listener to both easily understand and retain some wisp of hope in the end, even if it is only implied.

I would not be so stupid as to claim that Olivia intended these best-written of her unreleased bedroom productions to be metaphysical poems somehow toeing the line between classical balance and baroque terror in their meditation on the reciprocal quality of human sin. That would be silly, not because I don’t think a teenager is capable of such a thing (teenagers have, in fact, always been capable of making high art) but because these few songs focus on themes common to all of her songs: teenage insecurity, uncontrollable jealousy, and betrayal both social and self-inflicted. The depth of her imagery comes instead, I think, from an intuitive understanding of where the cultural meat of an issue lies, and when she writes a song her drive craves and so aims for power and gets rid of whatever there is that lacks it. Perhaps working with a co-writer somewhat slows that drive.  

“Pretender” is a song about being “fake” and how it works both outwardly and internally. It’s personification, the “pretender” of the title, is accused, envied, pitied, and ultimately, understood. It moves through four key lines.

Pointing her finger at this automaton, about whom she alone knows the truth, Olivia first wishes vindictively,

If only they knew what I knew.

But then, now envious of the figure, she prays,

I wish I knew what you knew.

Maybe as a result of these two contradictory desires, she is forced to admit with regret that the pretender can only be a fantastic image rather than a full person, a strawman created by her mind to both embody her sublimated desire and reflexively maintain her own superiority when it goes unfulfilled:

I created you to be plastic and deadly.

Finally, in a relentlessly logical conclusion, she must admit, as the construction falls to pieces, that this is obviously all about herself:

I created you to hide my own envy, ... Maybe I’m a pretender like you.

With her catalog in mind, the canonical interpretation is pretty obvious. The pretender is someone who is perfect and happy and Olivia is jealous of that. By the guilt left in the wake of her accusation, she realizes, indeed it should have been quite apparent from the start, that perhaps the person who seems to be happy is actually not happy. She perceives by juxtaposition that maybe others see her, Olivia, the same way, and in a sinking conclusion, perfect happiness, the other’s and hers as well, is shown to be only truly possible in image and never in the fullness of experience. It is a song about the difficult process of empathy and its bitter personal rewards. This interpretation prevails in Youtube comments, specifically in reference to her other songs about the jealousy encouraged by social media. “I’m happy for them, but then again, I’m not.” Maybe Olivia’s own fun and carefree public-facing presence is just as false?

The genius behind this songwriting, however, is that this other person does not need to exist for the song’s structure to function. This is by design, no doubt; she could very well be speaking only to herself the entire time. If Olivia is pretending too, as the final line suggests, then why could she not have been the pretender all along? Indeed, how else could Olivia be the only one who knows “the truth” about this figure in the first place? A personal struggle with identity, that is the meat of it all.

Her first wish for the pretender’s exposure is based in personal remorse, for lying to the world about who she really is. That her own social facade might be justly but violently forced open to expose the truth would be a painful but cathartic release. She makes her second wish as she recoils in the face of such an embarrassing prospect, hoping against reason that maybe it’s somehow all avoidable, that by abandoning any loyalty to the truth and to herself altogether she might in fact achieve the paradise that the pretender affects, soulless but free of the pain of having a soul too. Third is the realization that this is evil, that her desire is sinful, both grotesque and inhuman (“plastic”), and cruel (“deadly”). Fourth and last she can no longer pretend that her original finger-pointing isn't itself the result of this same worldly desire, as narcissistic an attempt at personal redemption as the outward facade is itself. Insecurity and jealousy, no matter how embarrassing or ugly, no more compose an understanding of identity than any more knowingly-constructed and performative self-image, and are just as self-serving in their own twisted way.

So in this song she is deconstructing herself, from outward composure to cryptic narcissism, shattering layer after layer in an alarmingly accelerating regression. Unfortunately, all that is left in the end is what she has done after what she is—performatively, emotionally, intuitively—has fallen away, specifically the intended result of the accusation she threw at the pretender to begin it all: once again, guilt. What else but guilt is exposed now to be the substance left of the human individual? For Olivia, deep down at least, guilt is always the together creator and eraser of human pleasure, the identity that is desire, and the only thing that fears the emptiness that would be left without it.

That a teenager could write such a penetratingly self-critical work is of course impressive, but the fact that guilt, desire, pleasure, happiness, identity, and fear are shown ultimately to be one and the same generative source is far more exciting. Here she exposes the potential versatility of her created and creative ability, that in maturity this raw power without singular definition could be manipulated into many other things completely new, things only Olivia and not I can imagine now.

#Olivia Rodrigo #sour #drivers license #pretender #hsmtmts #bootlegs #bob dylan #metaphysics #john donne #existentialism #pop music #catholic guilt #taylor swift #lorde #billie eilish

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More about Olivia Rodrigo: On her Voice

It’s been almost a month since Olivia Rodrigo’s album came out and since my obsession shows no sign of fading soon I might as well put it to good use. From the beginning I’ve been captivated by her uncanny ability to express emotion through her voice but now I’m starting to realize how fully strange her voice actually is, that emotional dexterity requires originality which is necessarily weird. The strangeness is subtle because it is centralized, and so the songs can have an uncanny core with a very familiar pop ballad shell.  

In the final chorus of “traitor” she holds the last syllable of that word through three ascending notes, starting with the “er” sound of the word’s typical American pronunciation and through the next two beats progressively opening the sound to an eventual hard “ah,” effectively leaving the word behind altogether and never fully pronouncing it. She often seems to insist, against conventional wisdom, on incorporating speech sounds into her singing, talking when she should be singing, and here, screaming when she should be enunciating.

I must assume that this is because of an intuitive need for specificity in expression, a particularly tricky and treacherously precise specificity here. This song is about her dissatisfaction with what is truly a very normal occurrence, an ex-partner moving on to another relationship faster than would be expected: a common human behavior and always ripe to be explained away by whomever might find comfort in doing so. The perpetrator never feels they have done wrong and so she risks attacking her listeners themselves if she missteps. It’s as if her despairing, elemental sense of unfairness is being squeezed through the tiniest of openings, between petulance on one side and self-doubt on the other. The word “traitor” itself isn’t specific enough to get through this hole, and therefore must be refined further. The same goes for her pronunciation of “paranoid” earlier in the song.

She plays around a lot at the low end of her voice, often touching the unsingable, and if not quite doing so affecting a strained raspiness and phlegmy chest tone that I can only describe as something like a groan of mourning (the descending “said it first to meee” on “happier”), an utterly inappropriate, almost perverse inclusion in a teenage heartbreak ballad, enough to upset the dignity of less empathetic and more socially-experienced listeners.  

She begins “deja vu” with another kind of breathy low voice that slides around over the vocal cords and at times ceases to vibrate them entirely, a sort of wide-open piecemeal mixture of air and depth I personally associate with (in a much more pronounced form of course) Louis Armstrong singing “What a Wonderful World,” another perverse reference juxtaposed sound-collage style against the eye-wideningly unprompted falsetto that follows it, an acrobatically angelic sort of performance that would be sweet in a more expected setting but is here I think almost sickeningly pitiful in its objectively unjustified strain. Taken altogether this jump-cut from repose to borderline cringe must be diabolically calculated to exist at all, expressing the long-ruminated-upon pain of a supervillain, the kind of supervillain that people are always identifying with. The pregnant “huh?” just before the drums kick in isn’t really a question at all, although it is written into the song that way, because it is so overwhelmingly automatic, trance-like, involuntary. Olivia sings this whole first verse and chorus as if she has no other choice but to be wrong, as if she knows there is something fundamentally false about her accusation, as if she really doesn’t want to know at all the answer to the song’s question, but she is broadly compelled by her nature to ask against her will, by fate, by the self. It’s cosmic tragedy, not necessarily lyrically, but definitely vocally.

In case I sound like a nutjob I can provide proof of her interest in performing on just such a cosmic stage. “Rebel Without a Clue,” apparently written and performed when she was fifteen years old, apes a certain kind of singer-songwriter yearning so well that it took me a while to realize its lyrics are so vague as to border on meaninglessness. That is not bad at fifteen of course, but I think it is also proof of a voice-before-words tendency in her songcraft that will only benefit from further simplicity of lyrics and complexity of expression as she matures.

The song centers around “will I ever shake hands with time?” a line too louded and conceptually labyrinthine to carry the weight here that it could, but appropriate completely to the elevated intensity of the performance. She begins the song around a single held high note that she bends every which way, rather stubbornly refusing to turn it into a substantial melody, as if that would be crass. When she says “drink up my friend, my potion of emotion” or “I’m a rebel without a clue,” I don’t really know what these have to do with shaking hands with time necessarily, but they are related purely by the sustained tone in which they are sung.  

If anything though, the song’s vagaries can only suggest together an existential subject, about the pain of participation and the struggle for an alternative:

Let’s sit, watch the trains all derail They want me to learn Well they can sit and watch me fail

Here is an almost joyous refusal to accept the parameters of one’s existence, and the palpable pain of the song comes from the reality that this voyeuristic pleasure at the expense of the world cannot be maintained statically but has to be achieved by an act of renunciation that is sometimes impossible or cruel. She feels, in other words, guilt. Pleasure and rage come from the temporary success and inevitable failure of any attempt to avoid fate, and sadness swallowing both comes from the regret of having attempted to do so in the first place. “I don’t really know who I am / And now you want me to change.” She sounds guilty for having even asked the simple question, “sitting in my room, what’s it all about?” as though questioning one's surroundings weren't one of the most basic human behaviors.

It is the mixture of this search for pure identity and regret for its failure in all of her best vocal performances--focused so far mostly but by no means necessarily around an attempt to find identity in another person--that makes her sing in the subtle but erratic way that she does, because to regret the past and yet simultaneously repeat it in real time is both fundamentally absurd and extremely normal. Just as I described her initially, the stranger she sounds, the more she sounds like herself. Thusly she can make this obtuse metaphysical quest sound as it should, like the most obvious and deeply relatable thing to hear in the world; like an image of basic, unstoppable, irrational desire; like pop music.

#Olivia Rodrigo #Louis Armstrong #Existentialism #Metaphysics #Singing #Pop Music #Sour #Philosophy #the rose song #hsmtmts

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About Olivia Rodrigo

It is a sign of a deep lack of self-esteem in our American monoculture that when Olivia Rodrigo so recently became the biggest pop musician of the moment most writers tasked to interpret said phenomenon were by default so cynical about the music they live to represent to the world that they seemed totally unaware of the most obvious explanation, one so obvious that it's almost childishly democratic: that she is simply the most naturally compelling new artist working in pop today.

Instead, they have cited elements of the music that are actually quite detrimental to its quality. Most pop-punk was weak, whiny, and obnoxiously self-involved when it was popular, and the fact that one of Olivia’s songs (“good 4 u”) sounds an awful lot like the good stuff (“Misery Business”) is indeed a sign of creative bankruptcy. That the album often sounds so much like Lorde, Taylor Swift, or Billie Eilish is only evidence of the pop machine’s greed-driven need for familiarity and the moments where these influences are truly overwhelming are the album’s least original and most incongruous. The truly teenage moments, despite their popularity with millennials and real teenagers alike, are out of touch and uninspired. I am a thirty-two year old man who also cannot parallel park, but I will never be able to relate to this kind of quirkiness in song if the singer is a rich teenager who claims in interviews that she pays for valet parking in order to avoid it.

Her relationship with Taylor Swift, whose influence is indeed all over every song on the album, seems destined to be tense, and Olivia performs best when her own creativity manages to escape it. “favorite crime” is essentially a Taylor Swift album track, imitative of Swift’s least incisive creative tendencies. “And I watched as you fled the scene / Doe-eyed as you buried me / One heart broke, four hands bloody,” writes Olivia, in the kind of mildly clever figurative imagery that makes the listener’s brain work to uncover a meaning that was already obvious, the kind of line Taylor writes in her weakest moments. The song’s apparent antecedent, “Victim,” performed live on Instagram in June of 2020, doesn’t sound like Taylor at all:

Let me be the victim of your perfect crime Bathe in my blood so I’m not the bad guy Yeah, I messed up so that you’ll mess up too I really want the blame to be on you So drive the knife in deep Make the victim bleed  

“Make the victim bleed.” It’s both unpretentiously direct and painfully deep. The imagery is vibrant and even specific enough to evoke centuries of high Catholic masochism without being at all complicated. Olivia’s best lyrics are indeed never detailed for their own sake, but calmly symbolic, referential of cultural archetypes, serving in the makeup of some more abstracted, weightier conceptual design.

Guilt, particularly of the religious kind, would seem to be her true creative center, a counterintuitive thought, given that so many of her songs officially released are so especially accusatory, to an empowering extent. But she always admits her doubt: “'Cause let’s be honest, we kinda do sound the same / Another actress / I hate to think that I was just your type” she says of her ex’s new girlfriend. Indeed every song on the album that is explicitly about heartbreak goes out of its way to acquit the criminal in one way or another, either implicitly or directly, describing situations that are as emotionally painful as they are understandable from both sides.

She knows, in other words, that her anger at the boy is both valid and unjustified, that her sadness is real but not at all unique. Her pain transcends by its lack of an honest target, and this is what makes her music relatable to all ages. Without quite saying it, through a contradictory combination of dedicated vulnerability and self-awareness she asks the universe--or God even--rather than the boy, why did this happen? Why does this happen and is it my fault? "Did I do something wrong?"

More than anywhere else, you can hear it in her voice. Though lots of different things can get in the way, this transcendent guilt sits in her voice as a sustained emotional power, shifting between a dull pain somewhere deep in her chest and a lump in her throat, lending sincere force and tragic significance to subject matter that most have interpreted as specifically teenaged and delightfully naive. Bruce Springsteen famously said that the first time he heard “Like a Rolling Stone,” Bob Dylan’s voice “sounded somehow simultaneously young and adult.” This is the kind of compliment disallowed to teenage girls by the use of the “you’re mature for your age” trope by predatory old men, which is a shame, because if anyone deserves to be called mature it's a teenager who takes guilt seriously before they’ve really had a chance to even do anything wrong.

Maybe she has had her marvelously unanimous success because this pained emotional high is heavily tempered on SOUR, particularly in its singles, two of which drown it out in the bridge (“drivers license”, “deja vu”), and the third of which filters it through talk-singing and distorted yelling (“good 4 u”). Maybe this is why she switched out “Victim,” a song where she sings of her “guilty Catholic heart,” and pleads “make the victim me,” for “favorite crime.” It does seem almost too heavy for American pop, and maybe a little dab of it is all the industry’s recipe requires because America doesn’t know how to process a mature teenage girl in a healthy way. But it is the passion at the source of her talent and, although her album is not at all perfect, shines through like the burning sun at every opportunity.

#olivia rodrigo #sour #pop music #catholic guilt #catholicism #bob dylan #taylor swift #lorde #billie eilish #bruce springsteen #hsmtmts #the rose song

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if you see this file on your desktop, do NOT open it. 

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The holiness of saints remains and must remain invisible to all that does not belong itself to holiness.

Jean-Luc Marion, Believing in Order to See  (via spiritandteeth)

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Villa Beaulieu, Honfleur via Felix Vallotton

Medium: oil

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me as a crab, lobster or scorpion: *snip*!!!

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Joan Miró

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