Andrew Han
Nearly four years after shifting the paradigm of the pop industry with her debut album, Lorde told her fans in a social media post that “Writing Pure Heroine was my way of enshrining our teenage glory, putting it up in lights forever so that part of me never dies, and Melodrama—well, this one is about what comes next” (Yelich O’Connor, 2016). Departing from the minimalist production and candid portrayal of suburban teenage anxieties in her first album, Melodrama explores Lorde’s colorful transition from adolescence to young adulthood—a psychological stage known as emerging adulthood (Arnett, 2000; Weiner, 2017). During this period, which occurs between the late teens and early-to-mid twenties, a person learns to stand alone, retiring from the luxury of their familial dependence and upbringing in pursuit of the autonomous nature of adulthood (Arnett, 2015).
In particular, this self-focused era is characterized by intense identity exploration while navigating frequent changes in one’s love and social life, educational and vocational pursuits (e.g., college, entering the workforce), and living arrangements (Jensen, 2011). For Lorde, this meant returning to New Zealand and removing herself from the grandeur of being a pop star, which many rising artists choose to revel in. This approach allowed Lorde to undergo the challenging, yet universal, process of becoming an adult in a way that was similar to many of her young listeners—including leaving her family home in New Zealand and reformulating her identity amidst unstable circumstances, particularly after having her heart broken by her first love (Donnellan, Trzesniewski, & Robins, 2011; Field, 2011). In Melodrama, Lorde articulates her coming-of-age story, inspired by heartbreak, in a concept album about a party, where recreational alcohol and drug use among youth is common. This recurring theme serves as the guiding pillar of an album that reflects the subject matters in popular music and literature on emerging adulthood (Arnett, 2005).
Chronicling drunken and drug-induced nights, Lorde narrates how her thrilling experiences interplay with her thoughts, feelings, and actions, particularly after a breakup. Given that the transition from adolescence to adulthood is a relatively unstable time of young people’s lives (Laiho, 2004), a romantic breakup can heavily impact an individual’s self-concept and self-esteem during a critical period of identity development, a core feature of emerging adulthood (Luciano & North, 2017). In fact, most people withstand at least one emotionally earthshaking romantic dissolution by the end of their adult years, sometimes triggering the onset of severe mental health issues, such as depression, anxiety, obsessive thoughts, and higher risk for suicide (Field, 2011). What distinguishes Lorde from her musical generation is her sheer authenticity and vulnerability— her willingness to openly describe personal tales of rejection and depression that many 21st century young adults face.
Much of popular music is typically dominated by “poptimism,” a term coined by music journalists to refer to media that promotes unrelentingly uplifting and positive portrayals of the process of overcoming life’s obstacles, particularly breakups (Weisbard, 2012). Lorde, however, doesn’t pretend she can easily shake off the newfound hardships of adulthood. Using prevailing themes featured in both pop music and emerging adulthood— ranging from the inelegancies of party culture, the apocalyptic feelings of heartbreak, and learning to be independent without the comforting context of youth—Melodrama paints a picture of emerging adulthood as blue, emotional, and dramatic as its album artwork and title suggests, testifying to one of the most discussed topics in music: a breakup. Rather than resisting the archetypes—falling in and out of love, the near-utopian flashbacks, crying at a party, the foolish debauchery of a night out—Lorde revitalizes and collapses the timeline of a heartbreak, using the transformative journey to unmask the liberating selfpower of dancing alone. This review explores how Lorde’s unique lyricism and production in her sophomore album evokes the dramatic shifts in emotional states often seen in young people, accurately portraying the challenges facing emerging adults today in their transitions from adolescence.
Lorde’s ability to authentically express her experiences as a reflection of her worldview and age is her one of signature qualities. When she, a 16 year old middle class teenager living in the suburbs, called out the music industry about the unrealistic, nearly unattainable depiction of alcohol, drugs, and partying amongst obscenely wealthy musicians on her hit, Royals, audiences identified with her. But how does an artist recalibrate her identity as a “normal” teenager when she has become a renowned pop star herself? Lorde chose to turn inward, going back home to New Zealand and moving out of her family home after turning 18 years old. During this time, she also braved the dismantling of a three-year relationship with her first love. Feeling rejected and betrayed, Lorde sings of jealousy in the beginning lines of Green Light. Grief-stricken at the possibility that her ex might have moved on, Lorde compares the chatter of rumors to teeth,
“Well those great whites they have big teeth
Hope they bite you
Thought you said you would always be in love
But you’re not in love, no more” (Yelich-O’Connor, 2017, track 1).
Lorde then immediately annotates herself, as the song switches from a minor to a major key: “But I hear sounds in my mind/ Brand new sounds in mind” (Yelich-O’Connor, track 1, 2017). This shift represents how young people frequently vacillate between mood states (Larson, Moneta, Richards, & Wilson, 2002), and as Lorde drops the facade of bitterness in identification of her broken heart, she looks forward to her burgeoning independence. But she still can’t let go of the emotional turmoil and sharp memories of her ex. In anthemic fashion, Lorde chants “‘Cause honey I’ll come get my things, but I can’t let go/ I’m waiting for it, that green light, I want it/ Oh I wish I could get my things and just let go,” using a traffic light as a metaphor to grant her the license to let go of her past and move on to the future (Yelich-O’Connor, 2017, track 1). Almost all young adults report experiencing the disintegration of a romantic relationship (Connolly & McIsaac, 2009), and many individuals associate the period after with severe distress and loss—an aching that Lorde wishes to erase (Davila, Steinberg, Kachadourian, Cobb, & Fincham, 2004).
In addition to its refusal to rhyme and its downbeat prechorus, which contrasts the structure of most pop music, Green Light’s mercurial musical production matches its lyrical content, as the song quickly transitions from jarring, “angry” piano chords to a euphoric, dance-pop chorus, underscoring how youth are likely to experience extreme changes in affect—both positive and negative (Larson et al., 2002; Silvers et al., 2012). Lorde’s first song marks the beginning of a night-long adventure in personal rediscovery and renewal as Lorde catches sight of a new sense of strength, resilience and optimism, even if she’s the drunk girl at a party bawling about her ex. Lorde reasserts, “That tonight and tomorrow [that girl] starts to rebuild” (Phillips, 2017). Capturing the desire for emancipation from pain while a past breakup is weighing her down, Green Light sets the stage for an entire album dedicated to the wide range of emotions an emerging adult can feel over the course of a single night.
Lorde’s inner turmoil, activated by rumination over her ex, lingers in Sober, the second song in her journey, as she plunges into a night replete with alcohol and drugs—perhaps using the near-blinding occasion of partying as an excuse to forgo dealing with the emotions, responsibilities and realities of adulthood. Because drug and alcohol use are particularly extensive in adolescents and young adults (Arnett, 2005), heartbroken youth might engage in recreational substance use as alternatives to “get over an ex” (McKiernan, Ryan, McMahon, Bradley, & Butler, 2018). Overall, partying serves as a common opportunity for people to spend time together and often involves substances that might encourage them to behave in out-of-the-ordinary ways—likely as a means to escape from the grim realities of contemporary adulthood and breakups (Arnett, 2005; Demant & Østergaard, 2007). Instead of characterizing a glamorous and consequence-free party scene typically portrayed in pop music, Lorde expresses how alcohol and drug use can be a source of anxiety—how she wishes to be elsewhere, but continues to stay due to the toxicity of millennial paranoia and the fear of missing out:
“Oh God, I’m out of clean air in my lungs
It’s all gone
Played it so nonchalant
It’s time we danced with the truth Move alone with the truth” (Yelich-O’Connor, 2017, track 2).
Dancing in an inebriated state, Lorde cannot help but think of her ex, even if she puts on a veneer of indifference in front of the public, peers, and her potential hookups. Although many young people phase out of problematic substance use behaviors (e.g., binge drinking) after their early 20s, risky drinking and drug use as well as casual sexual relationships (e.g., friends with benefits) can have destructive personal and social consequences, especially when these alternatives are viewed as accessible coping mechanisms to shield anxiety (Cooper, 1994; Hingson, Heeren, Zakocs, Kopstein, & Wechsler, 2002). For Lorde, partying and engaging in these behaviors might be a strategy to free herself from the feelings of loneliness and grief after her last relationship, noting that “I’m acting like I don’t see/ Every ribbon you used to tie yourself to me” (Yelich-O’Connor, 2017, track 2). As she dances with another person, she now fears love gone bad. She even questions: “But what will we do when we’re sober?” echoing the uneasiness and uncertainty young people encounter when forced to confront and reconcile with their actions once released from the spell of intoxication (YelichO’Connor, 2017, track 2).
In Homemade Dynamite, a percussive, hip-hop driven party track, and one of the album’s few optimistic offerings, Lorde further expands upon these themes by romanticizing sensation-seeking, the increase in risky behaviors (e.g., drunk driving) seen in adolescence and young adulthood (Arnett, 1992; 2005). Here, Lorde equates the close-knit, grandiose dynamic among her friends to an explosive grenade, and she, as always, illustrates a scene doused in hedonism and an amusing eye-roll:
“Blowing sh*t up with homemade d-d-d-dyna—
Might get your friend to drive, but he can hardly see
We’ll end up painted on the road, red and chrome
All the broken glass sparkling I guess we’re partying” (Yelich-O’Connor, 2017, track 3)
Lorde recognizes that there might be underlying consequences to her reckless behavior, even if a part of her also embraces and revels in indulgence. At its surface, the song portrays partying and alcohol use as a form of “togetherness” that collectively unites young people to break free from their normal routines and, in Lorde words, “behave abnormally” (Demant & Østergaard, 2007; Douglas, 2003; Ham, Bonin, & Hope, 2007; Yelich-O’Connor, 2017, track 3). Many emerging adults justify risky behaviors believing they will lose those opportunities later in life—exemplifying the carefree and brash disposition of youth, which many people are not willing to give up just yet (Ravert, 2009). Thus, sensation-seeking, as seen in Melodrama, can be viewed as a unique characteristic of emerging adulthood, in which recklessness represents broader exploration among young adults who are in pursuit of new and meaningful experiences (Arnett, 2005).
Another key facet in the lives of emerging adults is the pursuit of romantic relationships, from committed, longstanding partnerships to more casual, short-term connections (Arnett, 2015; Bersamin et al., 2013). In The Louvre, Lorde elaborates on the album’s references to drugs, opening with the strumming of a guitar that mimics one’s fluttering heartbeat while being in love. She whispers in admiration, “Well, summer slipped us underneath her tongue/ Our days and nights are perfumed with obsession” (Yelich-O’Connor, 2017, track 4), comparing the “warm” feelings of euphoria associated with “summer,” a slang-term for the party-drug ecstasy (Cohen, 1995; Kiyatkin & Ren, 2014), to a magnetic relationship—generally intense and elating, but short lived. Drugs represent the naiveté of young love as Lorde basks in “a rush at the beginning,” but is self-aware: “I get caught up just for a minute” (Yelich-O’Connor, 2017, track 4). Romantic relationships can be a source of positive affect and well-being (Dush & Amato, 2005), and Lorde likens her “supernatural” affection to artwork showcased in the famous museum in Paris, France, even if it is “Down the back, but who cares, still the Louvre” (Yelich-O’Connor, 2017, track 4). Against a backdrop of glistening synths and buoyant harmonies, Lorde tells her audience to listen to her beaming heartbeat and dance to it, evoking the blissful nature of being in love, an empirical feeling that researchers can identify and measure (Mashek, Aron, & Fisher, 2000). A compelling aspect of Melodrama is the high number of songs that have long outros of instrumentation without any lyrics, a bold artistic choice not generally seen in pop music. Young people have described love as “You could spend every second [together] and never get bored” (Williams & Hickle, 2010), and The Louvre ends with a finale as enchanting as its subjects: a grandiose guitar-driven outro, emblematic of a sun-soaked image or the climactic moment of a soapy romantic comedy.
Yet there is innocence in The Louvre, which is indicative of how youth are sometimes unaware of how romantic relationships can have devastating personal consequences, and, in certain cases, be deceitful (Field, 2011; Martin, 2015). Many emerging adults have to face what happens after the shared frequency of reciprocated love and effects of “summer” has faded. While The Louvre offers a picture of love at its most dreamy state, Liability spotlights a heartbroken young woman at her most vulnerable, both lyrically and sonically. A stark contrast to the previous track, Liability is a somber, stripped down piano ballad, another switch-up symbolic of the shifting frequency and intensity of thoughts and emotions among young people (Laiho, 2004). High-quality intimate relationships are often a cornerstone of adult well-being, making them a long-term goal for emerging adults, who are transitioning from the primary relationships of childhood (e.g., caregivers) to long-term friendships and committed romantic relationships (Montgomery, 2005). Breakups can be a severely distressing event for an emerging adult, provoking widespread interferences with one’s mental health, including sleep disturbances, bereavement, intrusive thoughts, and “broken heart” syndrome, which is described as a physical pain in the chest—heartache that mimics the symptoms of a real heart attack (Connolly & McIsaac, 2009; Field, 2011; Wittstein et al., 2005).
Inspired by a crying session during a late-night taxi ride in New York City, where much of the record was written and produced, Lorde mourns, “He don’t wanna know me/ Says he made the big mistake of dancing in my storm” (YelichO’Connor, 2017, track 5), referring to the trademark “storm and stress” young people inhabit (Arnett, 2008). She bleeds further:
“They say, ‘You’re a little much for me
You’re a liability
You’re a little much for me’
So they pull back, make other plans
I understand, I’m a liability
Get you wild, make you leave
I’m a little much for… everyone” (Yelich-O’Connor, 2017, track 5).
The loss of a romantic relationship might be the loss of the closest adult relationship a person has, which can have dramatic impacts on their self-concept and self-esteem, both of which are integral to positive identity development (Luciano & Orth, 2017; Slotter et al, 2010). Liability grasps the fear that loved ones will leave at some point. In the song, Lorde views herself from the lens of others who may have left her; occupying a space where she feels that she isn’t enough, but too much—all at the same time. Grappling with the emotional maelstrom in young people’s lives, where the manic ferocity of adolescence clashes with the looming expectations of adulthood, Lorde introspectively explains how lost friendships and relationships can crack our already fragile selves, even though inevitable changes in one’s social life are bound to occur during emerging adulthood (Jensen, 2011).
Detailing the self-blame, loneliness, preoccupation, and insecurity after rejection from someone she loved, Liability snapshots how devastating heartbreak can be at an early age (Davis, Shaver, & Vernon, 2003). Partly about the consequences of fame, Lorde presumes that she is too “wild” for others and that her presence might be overbearing for those who are not accustomed to her lifestyle. Lorde has internalized the rejection from her ex, dispersing the fatal blow to other aspects of her psychosocial well-being. Following a long-term relationship, people can experience dramatic reductions in self-esteem and changes to their positive views of self (Luciano & Orth, 2017; Slotter et al., 2010). Believing that she is a faded artist, ex-lover, and friend, she laments, “The truth is I am a toy that people enjoy/ ‘Til all of the tricks don’t work anymore/ And then they are bored of me” (Yellich-O’Connor, 2017, track 5), amidst piano chords with a deliberately missing note, personifying the loss after losing love that previously ignited sparks, pictured in The Louvre. However, Lorde’s greatest gift is how she renders a still, desolate sonic landscape to match the song’s lyrical content, which wallows in waves of juxtaposing emotions within the same song. Ultimately, Lorde details a young woman alone—but healing:
“So I guess I’ll go home into the arms of the girl that I love
The only love I haven’t screwed up
She’s so hard to please but she’s a forest fire
I do my best to meet her demands
Play at romance, we slow dance in the living room
But all that a stranger would see
Is one girl swaying alone stroking her cheek” (Yellich-O’Connor, 2017, track 5).
The most blue and crestfallen song on Melodrama is also the first track about self-care during the process of rebuilding one’s self after the conclusion of a long-term relationship. Although Lorde has been disappointed by others, she realizes that she has never let herself down and will continue to enjoy her own company. Lorde is alone, but free to be who she is—without the weight of her first love. Romantic breakups can serve as a lesson for young adults, who learn to regulate their emotions, endure stress, and eventually pursue other goals, interests, and people that match their needs and desires (Norona & Welsh, 2017). Liability epitomizes heartbreak for emerging adults who are more susceptible to extreme moods (Fisher, 2006), re-instilling the thematic spirit of Melodrama, in which emotions can feel potent, even soul-crushing, in the moment, but—at the end of the day—fleeting and not permanent. Despite hitting rock bottom, Lorde knows that she is “Better on my own” (YelichO’Connor, 2017, track 5).
Connor, 2017, track 5). Instead of hiding behind the curtain of partying, substance use, and sensation-seeking, Lorde bares all in Liability, telling a story about coming to terms with how her heightened emotions may be a central element of her personal and musical identity, which she, at times, believes to be too “wild”. Lorde reasserts herself as a liberated young woman and artist—finding comfort in her identity, vulnerability and full range of emotions—a key stepping stone of identity development in emerging adults who learn to live independently and self-govern without the context of their upbringing (Arnett, 2000). She ultimately attains healthier approaches to overcome heartache, using her hours alone with music as a form of therapy (Papinczak, Dingle, Stoyanov, Hides, & Zelenko, 2015). At the end of the song, she leaves listeners with a haunting, but earnest, final image, where she has her happy ending, but on her own: “You’re all gonna watch me disappear into the sun” (Yellich-O’Connor, 2017, track 5).
Autonomy after the residue of a breakup continues in Lorde’s two-part track, Hard Feelings / Loveless, the longest track of the album, and one of its most ambitious. In the first part, Lorde archives the details of her past relationship, eulogizing all the mundane memories of young love, moments she now acknowledges as meaningful. The first part of the song acts as a last mourning, in which she comes to terms with the closure of the relationship, admitting that these memories will leave indelible marks:
“Please could you be tender and I will sit close to you
Let’s give it a minute before we admit that we’re through…
I’m at Jungle City, it’s late and this song is for you
‘Cause I remember the rush, when forever was us
Before all of the winds of regret and mistrust
Now we sit in your car and our love is a ghost
Well, I guess I should go” (Yelich-O’Connor, 2017, track 6).
Rather than concealing this history, Lorde forges ahead, coming alive and making music in New York City, while honoring that emerging adulthood is a steady cycle of mistakes and that emerging adulthood is a steady cycle of mistakes and lessons learned, one of them being her first love. Hard Feelings references the mixed feelings after a breakup, in which a person concedes that a past relationship has no longstanding purpose. The intense emotions of heartache are largely influenced by a young person’s maturing impulse control (Fisher, 2006), and emerging adults adjust from familial dependence to self direction (Tanner, 2006), finding ways to conquer distress by themselves. Lorde informs, “I light all the candles/ Got flowers for all my rooms/ I care for myself the way I used to care about you” (Yelich-O’Connor, 2017, track 6), practicing self-care for herself, the only one who will always be there after the party.
Nonetheless, Lorde knows that the memories will flood back in on occasion, and the album’s most affecting moments are the lost apparitions of first love that Lorde will always remember fondly. After a cacophony of unwieldy, industrial-based sounds, Lorde peels back the layers of maximalist production and embraces a sentimental moment:
“Three years, loved you every single day, made me weak
It was real for me, yup, real for me
Now I’ll fake it every single day ‘til I don’t need fantasy, ‘til I feel you leave
But I still remember everything, how we’d drift buying groceries
How you’d dance for me
I’ll start letting go of little things ‘til I’m so far away from you” (YelichO’Connor, 2017, track 6).
As melodramatic as the album title denotes, Lorde deviates from the somber textures of the first bit of the track, smugly chanting in the next:
“Bet you wanna rip my heart out
Bet you wanna skip my calls now
Well, guess what? I like that
‘Cause I’m gonna mess your life up
Gonna wanna tape my mouth shut
Look out, lovers We’re L-O-V-E-L-E-S-S Generation” (Yelich-O’Connor, 2017, track 6).
Seesawing in a sea of anger, resentment, and cynicism against a club-driven beat, Lorde mercifully chants about the “storm and stress” young people incarnate in the second part of the track (Arnett, 2008). Lorde toys with and mocks the belief that contemporary youth is a “loveless” generation as a result of society that has moved away from the traditional family values of past eras, who often associate women with more avoidant emotional expression styles (Labouvie-Vief, Hakim-Larson, & Hobart, 1987). In Loveless, Lorde entertains and attunes herself to the feelings of apathy, rage, and the entire spectrum of emotions one can experience as a young adult, in addition to the heartrending burdens expressed in Hard Feelings.
Lorde begins to acknowledge that her fluctuating mental states are a broader contextual feature of emerging adulthood in Sober II (Melodrama), the title track in which Lorde becomes more lucid from a hangover or the dazed inebriation of the night’s carnage (Arnett, 2008). Amidst an orchestra of violins, a fitting score akin to a Shakespearean play, which the album is a direct nod to, Lorde elaborates on her loneliness and self destructive cycles:
“Lights are on and they’ve gone home
But who am I?
Oh, how fast the evening passes
Cleaning up the champagne glasses” (Yelich-O’Connor, 2017, track 7).
Discussing the range of emotions heard in Melodrama, Lorde has shared that the album title mirrors her still-growing maturity, “I felt more aware of my age, than I have ever, making [this] record… In these moments, I just was gripped by an emotion.” But she corrects herself, saying “Oh, I’m feeling this because I’m twenty and everything’s f*cked up in my brain. I’m actually rewiring to become an adult” (Oliver, 2017). In some ways, Melodrama is a humorous jab at how young adults feel, which she likens to a Greek “melodrama,” a piece of theater with overwrought characters and histrionic story arcs in Lorde’s conceptual night out.
“All the glamour, and the trauma
And the f*cking melodrama (whoa, whoa-oh)
All the gunfights, and the limelights
And the holy sick divine nights (whoa)” (Yelich-O’Connor, track 7).
Existing as an emerging adult in today’s world can be exhilarating and numbing, all at once. Lorde also speaks to a younger audience (i.e., aged 18 to 35), the largest age group experiencing depression and anxiety (Casey, 2013). In the empty quiet of the morning after, Lorde realizes that her emotions are temporary “lightning flashes” and that life might not be as polished as previously thought: “We told you this was melodrama/ You wanted something that we offer” (Oliver, 2017; Yelich-O’Connor, 2017, track 7). But what else could we expect of a sardonic generation that laughs off the pain we feel with memes and humor—a cure to relieve us of the red-hot nature of the world, divided by political and social unrest?
Another piano ballad, Writer in the Dark, uses the pop music trope of a scorned lover, with Lorde illuminating a flare of self-growth during a nearly-desperate, exposed moment. A hopeless romantic at heart, she achingly howls, invoking a falsetto inspired by another unconventional artist, 80s art pop singer-songwriter Kate Bush:
“Now she’s gonna play and sing and lock you in her heart
Bet you rue the day you kissed a writer in the dark I am my mother’s child,
I’ll love you ‘til my breathing stops
I’ll love you ‘til you call the cops on me
But in our darkest hours, I stumbled on a secret power
I’ll find a way to be without you, babe” (Yelich-O’Connor, 2017, track 8).
Pledging that she’ll rise to great lengths for everlasting love, Lorde also prides herself in full identification of her artistry and songwriting—one of the pivotal strides of emerging adulthood, in which one discovers their passions, vocational interests, and “niche” in society (Arnett, 2000; Erikson, 1968, p. 156). Using music as a portal to advance from her past and create meaningful art that reflects those personal experiences, Lorde reclaims her identity as a female musician, who will always write about her emotions, and pays loving tribute to her mother, who is a writer as well. She notes that getting over an ex will never be a straight line:
“I still feel you, now and then
Slow like pseudoephedrine
When you see me, will you say I’ve changed?
I ride the subway, read the signs
I let the seasons change my mind
I love it here since I’ve stopped needing you” (Yelich-O’Connor, 2017, track 8).
Even in fanatical, extreme, and so-called melodramatic moments of heartache, Lorde gradually recognizes that she will always look back on this time every now and then, whether that be in the lens of growth or loss. Yet, she unearths the “secret” elements of adulthood, no longer requiring the comfort of another individual, knowing she can find comfort in herself, self-love, and the music she creates. Lorde is aware that she’ll always remember her first relationship, learning to cope and fill the void with songwriting, a metamorphic craft she can use to protect herself and promote her own well-being (Papinczak et al. 2015). Speaking about the song, Lorde reaffirms her selfconcept, self-esteem, and identity, “It’s what I’ve always been. It’s what I was when you met me. It’s what I will continue to be after you leave. That’s exactly what was going to happen when you kissed a writer in the dark” (Oliver, 2017). The light at the end of a tunnel filled with emotional wreckage and debris, Writer in the Dark ends with a haunting melody, played by an intimate string orchestra, the last time the melancholic, theatrical sound of the wooden instrument is heard.
In Supercut, which refers to a compilation of video clips assembled for the “best” moments, Lorde dignifies one of the greatest pop archetypes—crying on-the-dance floor—fully embracing a record filled with a montage of the vivid emotions stirring in young people’s minds. Lorde opens the song, tenderly remembering what she shared with her first love:
“In my head, I play a supercut of us
All the magic we gave off
All the love we had and lost
And in my head
The visions never stop
These ribbons wrap me up
But when I reach for you
There’s just a supercut” (Yelich-O’Connor, 2017, track 9).
With wistful and nostalgic lyrics in contrast to the euphoric striking of the piano, Supercut envisions Lorde reliving a flipbook of memories from her first relationship while also accepting that her memory is betraying her. Lorde catches herself dreaming in the whimsical nature of love, admitting her recollection is a hologram, a mere illusion: “But it’s just a supercut of us” (Yelich-O’Connor, 2017, track 9). Though supercuts can conjure a unifying theme, they can be deceptive, obsessively isolating a single element or the pinnacles of an entire relationship and ignoring all the reasons why it doesn’t exist. Supercut also mirrors young people’s widespread social media use, in which electronic surveillance of past relationships, a common post-breakup behavior today, can be a major source of distress (Lukacs & Quan-Haase, 2015). Social media can be a misleading distillation of a person, oftentimes staging moments people want to disclose with others whilst burying the sorrows that everyone encounters. Supercut represents a generation in which the “perfect” relationship and life is captured through a filtered social media feed.
Driven by 80s disco-inspired electropop and a danceready beat, the song’s bright and blazing production evokes how blissful love can be, in which Lorde and her former partner, like many youth, believed “anything is possible” (Arnett & Schwab, 2012). Lorde describes her past experiences as “wild and fluorescent” (Yelich-O’Connor, 2017, track 9), a bittersweet encapsulation of the seemingly endless “possibilities and optimism” of emerging adulthood, when each moment feels like a milestone that can “dramatically turn the direction of one’s life” (Murray & Arnett, 2019, p. 21). Confused and heartbroken, combined with the dizzying turbulence of her young self, Lorde wonders what she did wrong, looking for an answer in the sonic mosaic of memories with her past lover. Yet, notably, Lorde no longer associates “wild” with emotional wroughtness, gathering that things that are “wild”, like herself, can also be as beautiful as the love in her past relationship, even if it doesn’t exist anymore.
Noting its status as the “eleventh hour” showstopper and the only song on the album where she is directly speaking to someone (Oliver, 2017), Lorde has called Supercut the denouement of Melodrama: a soliloquy about faded first love during her Shakespearean-like play of a young woman’s night out. Before the song’s climax, Lorde’s bare vocals encloses the maximalist production—almost as if she is alone in an empty room. She builds to a primal scream:
“Cause in my head (in my head, I do everything right)
(When you call I’ll forgive and not fight)
(All the moments I play in the dark)
(Wild and fluorescent, come home to my heart)” (Yelich-O’Connor, 2017, track 9).
The chorus amplifies to a club-inspired downbeat against a dreamy wave of synths and harmonies, as Lorde whips through a final montage of filtered memories that invoke a serene, buzzing feeling of reciprocated chemistry that has now faded. At an abrupt end, she solemnly confides, “In my head I do everything right,” encompassing what it’s like to have your heart broken after giving it your all (Yelich-O’Connor, 2017, track 9). Paying homage to defiant pop icon Robyn, one of the main inspirations for the album, Lorde learns to be okay with “dancing on [her] own” at the end of the night (Robyn, 2010).
Supercut concludes with a lyricless minute-long outro, allowing listeners to relive the feelings and memories invoked by the song, even if painful. As an emerging adult, Lorde asks her audience to trust the process of adulthood and to find selfacceptance and care, even during moments of intense, gripping emotions. The journey of adulthood and overcoming a breakup is often a non-linear path—individuals can feel heartache at any given point, even when “doing well.” While romantic relationships serve as important developmental milestones for young people (Norona & Welsh, 2017), not all relationships are meant to last forever. Sometimes, a person’s past relationship might not match their goals and needs, fostering reconciliation and acceptance of the breakup, as well as personal growth (Gala & Kapadia, 2013; Norona, Olmstead, & Welsh, 2016). As the clarity of the musical production quietly muddles, resembling a warped sound underwater, Lorde “lets go” of the past, rendering the gradual fading memories as time and new experiences push forward. Heartbreak will always be poignant, and Lorde’s retelling pinpoints the gravity of lost love and nostalgia, and the actual physical pain of heartbreak and grief linked in the brain (Flaskerud, 2011)—the burden of missing someone who now only exists as a memory. Abandoning the innocence and protective bubble of adolescence, Lorde is ready to settle in her flashbacks and grief, self-restore, and acknowledge that all-consuming emotions exist but should never restrain her identity. Supercut is pop at its pure essence: a perfect economy of words that describes the simultaneous and complex intersection of loss and growth in a young woman coming to her own. In its intimate conclusion of a muted vocal and clouds of ambient synths, Lorde loves her own company, even when playing a highlight reel of the past. Whether it’s crying on the dance floor or ruminating alone in her bed, as depicted in the album cover, Lorde shines. Perhaps she is doing everything right.
Lorde’s introspection evolves in Liability (Reprise), as she reexamines her headspace of self-doubt and solitude, deepening her understanding of her relationships and how they define her narrative. She echoes “I’m a liability/ Much for me/ You’re a little much for me,” but she soon detracks, “no no no no…” (Yelich-O’Connor, 2017, track 10). With the newfound optics of adulthood, Lorde learns that she’ll move on from and accept these crushing experiences as reflections of the necessary instability in love, education, work, and place of residence after adolescence, all of which cultivate Lorde’s growth and ability to take back control (Murray & Arnett, 2019):
“Maybe all this is the party
Maybe the tears and the highs we breathe
Maybe all this is the party
Maybe we just do it violently” (Yelich-O’Connor, 2017, track 10).
A symbolic narrative for the departure from adolescence, the party acts as a comprehensive commentary on one’s “twentysomethings,” an emotionally vivid time that is “exceptionally full and intense, but also exceptionally unstable” (Murray & Arnett, 2019, p. 17). Older adults often cite this period as the most valuable stage of their lives, with enduring ramifications on personal development (Martin & Smyer, 1990). Dethroning her self-image in the first iteration of the song, Lorde stands up, “But you’re not what you thought you were” (Yelich-O’Connor, 2017, track 10), finally believing she isn’t a “liability” or the “wild” force that makes others leave. Lorde withdraws from the innocence of youth, which she tried so desperately to hold onto, and welcomes the realities and deeprooted fear of growing up, accepting the personal tragedies that prevail in modern life and love. Entering the gates of adulthood whilst saying farewell to a relationship can be a whirlwind, albeit necessary, crusade, in which one learns to develop a clear selfconcept and more stable self-esteem and emotional state that is less contingent on others’ evaluations (Lodi-Smith & Roberts, 2010; Meier, Orth, Denissen, & Kühnel, 2011). Even after being left by someone she loves, Lorde gradually embraces herself and the mortality of human emotion—the “ribbons” that tied her down. She decides to not kill the pain that she feels, because, in doing so, she would also deny herself of all the feelings, and joy, that is being young: a time when we surrender control from our heads to our hearts. Appreciating that her life will never be as innocent or new again, Lorde whispers bittersweetly, “Leave,” one of the final indications that she is far removed enough from her past, and youth, to march on (Yelich-O’Connor, 2017, track 10).
Melodrama is not a breakup album. In her own words, Lorde has firmly declared that it’s “a record about being alone,” featuring the ups and downs of solitude and heartbreak at the crossroads of the chaotic, high-stakes reality of adulthood (Weiner, 2017). The album ends in anthemic fashion with Perfect Places, recounting the vacillating triumphs and woes of young people during a night out:
“Every night, I live and die
Feel the party to my bones…
I hate the headlines and the weather
I’m nineteen and I’m on fire
But when we’re dancing I’m alright
It’s just another graceless night” (Yelich-O’Connor, 2017, track 10)
Referencing the circus that emerging adults live in—the parties, the drinking, the casual hookups, the social events—as well as the weighty expectations of looming adulthood (Claxton & Dulmen, 2013; Murray & Arnett, 2019), Lorde maintains partying as a metaphor for youth in a divided world, as she participates and indulges, yet again. She integrates these experiences as a part of her daily life, validating partying as a social means of networking among young adults who can’t let go of the irresponsibilities of youth (Demant & Østergaard, 2007). However, Lorde is increasingly self-aware in the personal heaven and hell that is the party—the overarching thematic concept the album is built on—as emerging adults desire accessible means to cope with their turbulent world (Arnett, 2005). Lorde exhilaratingly doubts, “This is how we get notorious/ ‘Cause I don’t know/ If they keep tellin’ me where to go/ I’ll blow my brains out to the radio.” With a rally from a choir in the thick of blaring synths, she then leads:
“All of the things we’re taking
‘Cause we are young and we’re ashamed
Send us to perfect places
All of our heroes fading
Now I can’t stand to be alone Let’s go to perfect places” (Yelich-O’Connor, 2017, track 11).
Honoring passed musical icons Prince and David Bowie, the latter of whom called the pop artist the future of music (Weiner, 2017), Lorde delivers on high expectations with a sophomore album that speaks to the dynamic lives of young people: constantly making mistakes, learning from them, and gaining the courage to accept the messes we are left alone in bed with. In the theater of the night, Lorde wonders if party culture leads to revelation, or submerges self-expression in the name of feeling free and mindless enough to be oneself. Presenting a philosophical question at the final lines, which also end with the piano, the “brand new sounds” of adulthood that began the album in Green Light, Lorde contemplates with her listeners:
“All the nights spent off our faces
Trying to find these perfect places
What the f*ck are perfect places anyway?” (Yelich-O’Connor, 2017, track 11).
Now a jaded, yet mature woman, Lorde concludes that pure happiness isn’t obtainable. As people continually yearn for catharsis, Perfect Places casts doubt on the purpose of partying, questioning if it discloses or stifles her inner truths. But Lorde recognizes that she is not perfect, and that she doesn’t have to be, scraping away the zeitgeist of today’s generation who strive for perfection during a time of frequent mistakes and imperfections (Nehmy & Wade, 2015). Like many others in their twenties, Lorde resolves that she isn’t the person she expected to be, and that’s okay. No longer shouldering the burden incurred by a breakup, Lorde links her emotional intensity with her identity as a musical artist and the broader landscape of a modern young adulthood, discarding society’s pursuit for the “perfect” journey and ending as nonexistent. Melodrama finds Lorde at a time of heightened self-pity but, most importantly, self-reflection.
Reestablishing her focus on personal welfare over past relationships as well as the stormy nature of emerging adulthood, Melodrama is much less an album and more of a statement on the emotional renaissance of a young woman in 2017. The album avoided the “sophomore slump” seen in rising musical artists and was frequently cited as the top ten best albums of the 2010s (NME, 2019; Rolling Stone, 2020), further confirming its prominence as a cultural gem and defining record for gen-z and millennials alike. But there are several limitations that warrant mentioning. First, this review is an analysis of the album according to literature on emerging adulthood; it is not a direct examination of the artist’s development, or that of other age groups. Second, it is critical to evaluate music along the perspectives of specific cultural groups, who might hold certain albums with elevated reverence. In fact, Melodrama has spawned a cult following among the LGBTQIA+ community, who often undergo a “second adolescence” (Pollard, 2020). Many queer individuals’ normative experiences of first love and consequent breakups, which typically come later in life compared to their cis-gendered, heterosexual peers, can feel even more profound— especially given the repressed expressions of love in childhood and adolescence, a psychosocial environment in which queer relationships might be controversial (Pollard, 2020). Rather than complying with the guidelines of popular music, which is overshadowed by records with loosely-related, “playlist” driven songs, Lorde sets her 40-minute coming-of-age feature over the course of a party, a sprawling, cinematic metaphor for the swinging emotional spirit of young people’s heartbreak, which can reprioritize a person’s future identity, values, and relationships (McKiernan et al, 2018). Commemorating her early years, Lorde has conveyed, “Even when I was little, I knew that teenagers sparkled… I knew they knew something children didn’t know, and adults ended up forgetting” (Yelich-O’Connor, 2016). Melodrama archives the richly-textured memories of exodus from adolescence with fine-grained sonic architectures that match the poignant swirls in the minds of youth: the upbeat, party songs have hints of poison, while others wallow in selfpity, despite tides of enlightenment. Lorde continues to affirm her status as a generational voice during a “wild and fluorescent” era of existing at odds with oneself and the universe, a time of incessant relapse and renewal. Since its release, fans are in desperate need of another album that might recount the dread of one’s twentysomethings in a world on fire, amidst an isolating pandemic and socio-political overture.
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