Those who hoped punctuation as song titles went out of fashion, along with hidden track additions, are going to be devastated by this new Kesha album. Two years on from Gag Order and Kesha, along with several other stars of the mid-2000s, are digging deep into a sincere new writing style. It’s a time of sinking or swimming in the electropop genre, and few are managing to make the transition a success. Miley Cyrus has set a high bar, Dua Lipa has maintained it. Ava Max has yet to come close. All this to say the popular artists of the previous decades are now trying to find a new route through streaming, touring, and making their style a focal point of the album. It’s a time for many artists to speak their truth, and if they don’t have one, it’s high time they thought one up. Catchy and sexualised is no longer enough, it never was for those wanting a deeper discussion of interesting stories. Kesha trials that on .
A messy mixture of genres and styles comes through on opening song, Freedom. It’s the bass hooks and piano spots which Kesha brings through here, softly spoken vocal work of being drunk and happy. There is never a moment on . where the aim is to be anything but catchy and trendy. It’s an inconsequential album, but not because of Kesha’s inability to find a memorable tone. Energetic but empty work the whole way through. Just take a listen to Joyride, a song focusing more on the production scope and upbeat tempo than any true message. Those two pop hits are Dylanesque when compared to Yippee-Ki-Yay, a song so liberated of thought it’s hard not to love it. a dreadful adaptation of stomping and clapping tones, riding the coattails of pop sensations who seem to think country music is cool again. Kesha plays dress-up in the lives of real people, and all while providing some of the most grating pop music to date.
Faux party atmosphere, while inevitable acoustic spots begin to appear, is the pop pipeline. Delusional makes smart work of this tone, but Kesha comes in with some piercing, poor lyrical work. For every smart studio flourish, there is another spot of misery to come. Every song follows the same structure. Quiet beginnings, an empowered attempt as the climax, and then a spiralling end where those pop flourishes are contrasted with a second or two of quiet. Kesha does well to make a predictable pop album, but for those wanting more from the Backstabber hitmaker, . will be a ridiculously light listen. Relatively tame understandings of modern-day verbiage, like Red Flag, hear Kesha provide as much delight as a TikTok dance, and as much depth as the trend of the day so often provides. Shallow waters to paddle in, especially for those enjoying the richer electropop depths elsewhere.
Inspired moments do not make for a whole project. Instrumental tones and moments which will no doubt linger on the mind of those who have ever listened to a pop album before. It’s a carousel of already written pieces, of instrumentals which you can recognise in passing. It’s what keeps pop in a constant rotation, for the safe listener scared of change. You have heard The One before, in a different form, by another artist. Boy Crazy may be the worst of the bunch, a song tailor-made to those who find the need to project them into the very fabric of a track made independent of their experiences. Pop music must be relatable, but the void-sized hole Kesha leaves for people to turn themselves into main character fodder through her songs, which maintain that club-adjacent BPM, is telling. It’s also a grim listen. An inevitably heartfelt closer, Cathedral, is tacked on for good measure. A boneless pop undertaking which, even as Kesha continues to push, is years behind the cream of the crop.
