Although Brat was Charli’s rise to mainstream stardom, offering an underground, hyper-pop club record, her latest work, Music, Fashion, Film is perhaps the most “Charli” album to date in that it is totally self-indulgent. Yes, it is a massive sonic departure from what we’ve heard up until now, but it is so experimental, as was Pop 2, as was how i’m feeling now. There is no doubt that this album was a project for herself and her long-time collaborator AG Cook rather than one for the fans.
For most of the album, she is tunelessly speaking some stream of consciousness, unedited, un-rhyming words over a wall of distorted guitars. I think it is an extremely acquired taste; it is, for the most part, hookless, except perhaps for tracks like “SS26,” a self aware song about the superficiality of pop-stardom or “Wink Wink,” a tongue in cheek song about fucking your dad (although maybe she was just saying that for effect).
“Yeah” starts with Charli’s monotoned, vocal-fried voice saying “I don’t wanna,” a bunch of times before exploding into a nauseating, My Bloody Valentine kind of sound-sludge. There is barely a verse, a chorus, or a bridge; we are just edged for 2 minutes and 17 seconds until the song slows down and deteriorates into nothing.
There is an overall theme of a weird, celebrity dystopia. “Card Declined” (which sounds like it was recorded in one take, with Charli lying down on the sofa) is about being able to buy a whole new life but still being denied access to real meaningful happiness. “Persona” talks about the split between public and private personalities. She doesn’t shy away from the uncomfortable, skin-deep reality of “fame and fortune”.
“No One Lasts Forever” is the final track on the album, a song about oblivion, mortality and the fact that the art always outlives the artist. She sings over a super glitchy, queasy guitar about how “nothing’s gonna last forever.” Filmmaker David Cronenberg’s monologue closes the album reminding us for a minute and a half that “they are dead, they are gone, no one lasts for ever” creating a dizzying seasickness as you come face to face with the reality of our collective and inevitable demise, as the final shreds of guitar feedback echo in the background.
Charli has never been one to make dinner party music. Her albums are never intended to be played as background music. You may hate this album: the volatile textures, lacklustre lyrics, the overly rigid, expressionless tone of her voice as she speaks about mortality and superficiality. You may love the “Venus In Furs,” droning soundscape mixed with a sort of William S. Burroughs’s lyricism meets Cake’s monotone singing style. Either way, I doubt Charli gives a fuck what you think. This is an album for herself, and it seems she had fun making it.
