Album Review: Olivia Rodrigo - Guts

Fuck it, it’s fine.

Olivia Isabel Rodrigo whispers those four words after taking a pause—albeit a brief, yet wildly impactful one, leading into the chorus of the second song (and second single released in advance) from her sophomore full-length, Guts. And before whispering, “Fuck it, it’s fine,” an aside that is both used as a means to convince herself of something, and as a knowing and smirking wink to the listener, she quickly builds the song, “Bad Idea, Right?,” toward a towering peak of cacophony by repeating a variation on the titular phrase.

“Seeing you tonight is a bad idea, right?,” she says, and with each time she utters it, Rodrigo’s voice grows more and more manic, as she sounds, again, as if she is attempting to provide assurance or convince herself of something that she does not necessarily believe. 

An attempt at assurance or convincing herself more than anyone else.

“Seeing you tonight is a bad idea, right?,” she’s practically howling by the time this moment in the song reaches its climax prior to all of the crunchy, snarling instrumentation dropping out for just a single moment, and she whispers the answer to herself.

Fuck it, it’s fine.

And it did take me until hearing “Bad Idea, Right?,” within the context of the album, as a whole, and thinking about my relationship to pop music, now, in 2023, to have a better understanding, or appreciation of the song. It’s an inherently fun song—that is undeniable. Written with a razor-sharp sense of humor, it’s subtly infectious in how many opportunities it provides us as listeners to scream along with Rodrigo as she wonders just how bad of an idea it would be to pay a visit to an ex-boyfriend.

And I, as I often do, have been thinking about my place, if I am even to have one, or be granted one, as a listener or member of the audience within the realm of pop music—specifically pop music that is being made by young (and at times, sad) women.

Olivia Isabel Rodrigo was born in 2003—she turned 20 this year, and her age, and her lived experiences over the last two years since the release of her debut, Sour, play a large role in the poignant lyricism across Guts. 

I was in college the year Rodrigo was born—in 2003, I was finishing my second year, and entering into my third. It was the year I turned 20, and my age, and my lived experiences, play a role in the uncertainty I have felt, at times, about if I do belong within the listenership, or the audience, of an artist like Rodrigo, specifically.

What is a 20-year-old woman singing about that a 40-year-old man can identify with at all?

Fuck it, it’s fine.

And it did take me until hearing “Bad Idea, Right?,” within the context of the album, as a whole, to understand or at least find some kind of acceptance in that many of us have, perhaps, found ourselves in a similar situation.

A bad idea that you are, perhaps to your own surprise, able to convince yourself to feel otherwise about it.  

The moment where you do find yourself, for whatever reason, whispering, “Fuck it, it’s fine.”

*

I am uncertain if the expression “Too Big To Fail” is the correct thing to use as a descriptor for Guts, but as the second album from an artist who saw an unprecedented amount of success with not only her debut album, but the debut single itself—the smoldering, emotionally torrential “Driver’s License,” maybe a better, or more accurate way to describe Guts is that it was (and rightfully so) a highly anticipated album.

I am uncertain if the expression “Too Big To Fail” is the correct thing to say as a descriptor for Rodrigo herself—she is big, and was literally from the beginning after “Driver’s License” became such a phenomenon in the early part of 2021, but pop music is notoriously fickle. Popular tastes and interests shift, and can shift quickly, and an artist of any size can return with a new album, or at least the promise of new material, and it can simply not hit the same, or resonate, with listeners the way their previous efforts did. 

It does not seem entirely impossible to build, and then hang onto, an audience—it’s not impossible, but it cannot be easy to maintain and regularly find it to be sustainable. 

And regardless of how uncertain I am if the expression “Too Big To Fail” is correct, or accurate, in how I am using it to describe both Rodrigo herself, within these last two years, and Guts as a sophomore album—but she, as an artist, and the album itself, are both, of course, entirely too big to fail. 

Even with, like, one, maybe two arguable stumbles that Guts takes in its sequencing, it is a collection of 12 songs that not only are impressive and mature, but they are simply enormous in their scope.

Working once again in direct collaboration with producer and co-writer Dan Nigro, who was at the helm for Sour, the stakes for Rodrigo’s second full-length are, as expected, much higher, and with that in mind, the album itself is exponentially more enormous than its predecessor—the bratty, pop-punk, guitar-driven songs are even brattier and punkier, and the theatricality of the piano ballads is even more dramatic this time around. 

Most notably, there is honestly nothing as transfixing and transcendent as “Driver’s License,” but there also doesn’t have to be, or even need to be—Rodrigo, as a songwriter and performer, does not need to, nor does she probably want to, to repeat herself in that regard. 

Instead, you can hear traces of the slow-burning anguish when Rodrigo and Nigro bring the tempo of the album down—specifically after the halfway point, where it is clear that they don’t need to make an exact copy of what worked before in order to keep pushing the drama of Rodrigo’s voice and writing forward to new places.

And the kind of post-“Since U Been Gone,” unhinged ferocity of “Good 4 U,” which, two years ago, was a technicolor punch in the face, now honestly sounds somewhat tame when compared to the brash, dizzying, and snarling places Guts will forcefully drag you to.

Impressive, mature, and enormous in scope, sure, but it is also a record, for as many songs are based around cultivating a specific kind of “vibe,” or are written with a sense of humor at their core, Guts is a record that does speak volumes—regularly providing surprising, thoughtful, and often pensive glances inward that are universal enough that it, with seemingly little effort manages to speak those volumes loudly and to a much more diverse audience than perhaps anyone would have anticipated. 

*

And there was anguish, of course—perhaps a startling amount of anguish, and heartbreak, that Rodrigo depicted on Sour, specifically in an inherently dramatic song like “Traitor,” or even within something slightly more jaunty, or playful in tone, like “One Step Forward, Two Steps Back.” 

There was anguish, yes, and vivid portraits of the tumultuous nature of relationships—between people young, or otherwise, and the anguish and tumult are still very much present throughout Guts, and where she focuses on those kinds of feelings, and those kinds of depictions, are primarily in the second half of the album—or, at least addressing them with the kind of theatrical flair she is easily capable of, on the sweeping, harrowing, and dramatic “Logical,” and the simmering, embittered “The Grudge.”

“Logical” finds Rodrigo accompanied primarily by the piano, with some additional, very subtle flourishes of acoustic guitar and atmospheric synthesizer textures—and the arranging here does exactly what it is supposed to, which is underscore and compliment her vocal performance, and the raw torrent of emotion from her lyricism.

Within her songwriting this time around, among the myriad things that struck me was Rodrigo’s surprising use of religious allusions and imagery—the most apparent or most startling, maybe, arrives elsewhere on Guts, but it is a device she subtly uses within the first few lines of “Logical.” 

“God, you’re so good at what you do,” she sings, exasperatedly, at the off-stage individual she refers to as a “master manipulator.” “Come for me like a savior,” she continues. “And I’d put myself through hell for you.”

There was no question about the power or capabilities of Rodrigo’s voice around the release of Sour—but in the two years in between albums, it is clear that she has become much more confident in her abilities as a vocalist, and not only a vocalist, but a performer as well who can easily sell the emotion within the songs. You can hear it throughout Guts in the way she plays with different ranges or actual delivery, and it is on “Logical” where her ability to carry the drama, tell the story, and make the listener feel the emotion right alongside of her is very apparent, specifically in both the song’s breathless chorus, and the self-effacing bridge.

“You got me thinkin’ two plus two equals five,” she begins, moving through the words with a visceral urgency and feeling of regret. “And I’m the love of your life. ‘Cause if the rain don’t pour and the sun don’t shine, then changing you is possible—I guess love is never logical.”

And within the maturation of her voice, and abilities as a songwriter and performer, and the things she is opting to include in her lyrics now, Rodrigo, as she is able, is writing more about her sexuality on Guts—often coy, or perhaps a little suggestive and sensual—this element of her lyricism finds itself in “Logical”’s bridge. With the most unbridled anguish and, ultimately, anger in her voice, she slides from a chorus, and the lines, “Our problems are our solvable—‘cause loving you is loving every,” then with a quick breath, pulls us into the next few lyrics, where she rattles off a small, but severe, list of the problems within her dynamic with the song’s antagonist. 

“Loving you is loving every argument you held over my head,” she begins. “Brought up the girls you could have instead. Said I was too young, I was too soft. Can’t take a joke, can’t get you off. Oh, why do I do this?”

A song like “Logical” has no real resolution, or, perhaps, the resolution we, as listeners, want for Rodrigo in these circumstances. Instead, she continues to, in part, blame herself as the song heads towards its conclusion. “Love is never logical,” she continues to assure us, or maybe just herself. “I know I’m half responsible, and that makes me feel horrible,” she confesses, before more reluctantly accepting, or at least understanding, the remorse she still feels. “I know I could have stopped it all—god, why didn’t I stop it all?”

*

And I have, as I sometimes do, found myself feeling a little overwhelmed by the, at times, daunting idea of writing about Guts—it is an enormous release by an enormous name, carrying that weight with it before I had even pressed play on the album for my initial listen through. 

And I have, as I sometimes do, found myself feeling a little overwhelmed by the, at times, daunting idea of writing about Guts—attempting to unpack an album that is, perhaps, not explicitly intended to be listened to, let alone enjoyed, by the demographic I am a part of (a white man who recently turned 40), and regardless of how I may, or may not, ultimately belong in this pocket of contemporary popular music, I am able to catch brief reflections of myself in the lived experience Rodrigo holds up as a mirror to her audience. 

And I have, as I sometimes do, found myself feeling a little overwhelmed by the, at times, daunting idea of writing about Guts because after over 2,000 words, and the album, at this point in the word count, having been out in the world for, like, four or five days, there are the corners of the internet that I do not frequent, or am often just totally oblivious to, but these are the corners where the speculation, or debate, over who some of the songs on Guts are about lives, and thrives.

And in feeling overwhelmed, I could, of course, step away completely, as I do, more and more, the further into the year we get, give consideration to. I could choose not to write a review of Guts, even after spending the amount of time it has taken me to throw this many words onto the page thus far—it would be, perhaps, almost too easy to simply stop.

I could simply enjoy the album for what it is, and what the songs are beginning to mean to me, and for me, and keep all of that to myself, because for every album that I do ultimately write about, there are countless I am, for myriad reasons, unable to. 

And in feeling overwhelmed, I could, of course, start over, as I do, more and more, with how complicated these pieces have become—I begin working on it with a conceit, or an idea, in mind of how I am going to approach the album and sometimes, the further along I get, the harder it becomes to make that idea work, or resonate in the way that I had initially intended.

And in feeling overwhelmed, I could, of course, give in, and find myself within the corners of the internet where the speculation and debate over who some of the songs on Guts are about, and figure out a way to write that into my reflections on the album.

Rodrigo, following the release of the album, was profiled for a cover story in an issue of “Rolling Stone,” and in a pull quote that she shared on Instagram among photographs taken of her to accompany the piece, said, “I just write songs; it’s not my job to interpret them for other people.”

And in feeling overwhelmed, I did, in a short exchange with my friend Alyssa, share how I was feeling about the very notion of including the speculation and debate over the subjects of specific songs on Guts, or, if I should try not to let that inform, or find its way, into my thoughts on the album and how I was approaching it. 

Alyssa’s response to me was short, but she was correct, and it was, I think, what I needed to hear—she reminded me that I am not a gossip columnist, and that, in the end, any kind of speculation or debate regarding the identities of who some of the songs on Guts might be about should not really play any role in how I think about an album, and how I write about it and my experience living within it. 

The theories—like the one that the queer-coded “Lacy” is allegedly about Gracie Abrams and it, in a way, is a companion piece or some kind of response to Abrams’ “Amelie,” also vaguely queer-coded, and allegedly about Rodrigo—or that the late arriving, smoldering bombast of “The Grudge” is about a suspected falling out with Taylor Swift—certainly add to the mystique and interest that surrounds an album like Guts, but the kind of speculation really only does make things more complicated in terms of the kind of analytical unpacking I am already doing within the world Rodrigo has created here.

And the fascinating thing about “The Grudge” is not wondering whom Rodrigo’s pain and vitriol are directed at, but it is what occurs within the song’s arranging and its structure, and how that compliments the natural rise and fall of the emotion within the vocals.

And there is something similar—at least to me, anyway, because within “The Grudge,” I can pick out the faint echoes, or traces, of “Driver’s License,” though here, and intentionally so, the song does not grow to the same towering heights.

Opening with an atmospheric tone that you can almost barely make out, the creaky sound of an upright piano begins to gently unfold, quietly, setting the stage for Rodrigo’s clear, and, eventually, bold vocal performance.

In its arranging, I am remiss to call “The Grudge” understated or subtle, but it is, in a way, or in a sense—it is among the album’s quieter songs, simply because it is written as a ballad. But unlike the relatively straightforward nature of “Logical,” in terms of its rise and fall and where it leans into the theatrically of Rodrigo’s vocals and writing, “The Grudge” is just subtle and understated enough to where it becomes clear that it is an exercise in tension with little, if any, release in the end, because even when the song gathers momentum and starts to head into the chorus, it never lets go, or is cut loose, in the explosive and surprising way that a song like “Driver’s License” did, which is what, at the time, made it so refreshing to hear. 

It simmers, and burns, but without that release or moment of catharsis, the instrumentation in the song mirrors Rodrigo’s narrative, where there is no real resolve for her, the off-stage, unnamed antagonist, and the titular grudge she has carried.

In her writing, there is a lot going on in “The Grudge,” and Rodrigo does really try to pack as many words, and as many emotions and thoughts into every measure as she can—and somehow managing to make it all fit within the melody of the song, though she often sounds breathless from the immediacy with which she must tell this story. 

The vivid portrait she writes begins on a Friday in May, and she recalls being on the receiving end of a perhaps unexpected or at least unexpected breakup phone call—the way it is described, as the first verse builds, is quite extreme in its flair for the dramatic and its intensity. “Took everything I loved and crushed it in between your fingers,” she sings. “And I doubt you ever think about the damage that you did, but I hold onto it like my life depends on it,” she continues, and again, working overtime to cram every syllable into the structure that has been set underneath her.

“My undying love—now, I hold it like a grudge,” Rodrigo explains near the end of the first verse. “And I hear your voice every time I think that I’m not enough.” 

Rodrigo’s pain, and the way she has internalized it—and what internalizing it has done to her, is detailed in the second verse. “The arguments that I’ve won against you in my head,” she begins. “In the shower, in the car, and in the mirror before bed. Yeah, I’m so tough when I’m alone, and I make you feel so guilty—and I fantasize about a time when you’re a little fucking sorry.”

The pain, and how far down it has been internalized, then continues rising to the surface the further along Rodrigo takes us into the second verse, as well as in the song’s bridge. “You must be so insecure—you must be so unhappy,” she surmises. “And I know, in my heart, hurt people hurt people. And we both drew blood—but man, those cuts were never equal.”

The conceit of “The Grudge” is, of course, found tucked within the final line of the chorus, which is among the lyrics that resonated loudly with me during my initial listen, but it is within the bridge, that Rodrigo has a preternatural knack for penning in nearly every song on Guts, where the hurt becomes the most palpable, and her voice rises to a place of cacophony that she rarely, if ever, lets it go elsewhere on the record. “Do you think I deserved it all,” she asks. “Your flowers and your vitriol? You built me up to watch me fall,” she accuses. “You have everything, and you still want more.”

And regardless of who “The Grudge” is really about—if it is an ex-boyfriend who unexpectedly broke her heart, or if it is about a complicated falling out with Taylor Swift—even with the bleak, emotional depths she explores very unabashedly, Rodrigo, as we all do, stops short of committing completely by revealing the slight reservation she has about the titular grudge. “Even after all this, you’re still everything to me,” she reveals in the song’s final chorus.

And it is within the final chorus when she slightly amends the line that was, for me, the most impactful to imply that this grudge might, in fact, not last forever—but before this glimmer of forgiveness, or reconciliation, she quietly reflects, with the slightest sense of biting humor, “It takes strength to forgive, but I don’t feel strong.”

*

And there are, of course, myriad things about Olivia Rodrigo that are impressive, or admirable, and even in spending a short amount of time with Guts, following its release, I think something that I find to be the most admirable, and among the most impressive (there is a lot that is, in fact, impressive on this album), is her ability to be a songwriter and performer that can do both—create both the smoldering, harrowing ballad, and a ferocious, scream until you shred your larynx, punky banger. And what is, perhaps, even more admirable than that, is when she does find a way to walk the line between the two extremes, creating an album that is short, yes, but across its 12 tracks, is wildly cohesive in its aesthetic and paced, or structured, impeccably in terms of organic tension and release. 

And it is, as you might anticipate, or perhaps, have already experienced for yourself, the songs that are the most ferocious, or constructed around the strength of a shout-a-long chorus, or are the most punky and bratty, that are inherently the most fun to listen to.

An early favorite for a number of listeners, I think, or at least a song that, even if you were uncertain about it during an initial listen, but its huge, infectious nature allowed it to grow on you, is the fun, strummy, and playful “Get Him Back!,” but I think that Rodrigo is more successful in terms of creating something gigantic, rollicking, and much more memorable on the New Wave inspired “Love is Embarrassing.”

And it is the attention to detail with the New Way, or at least dazzling 1980s-inspired aesthetic, that, at least in part, makes “Love is Embarrassing,” as fun and as jaunty of a song as it is—the thick, layered percussion echoing out within the quickly-paced tempo, as well as the fuzzed out, borderline scuzzy bass line that rumbles underneath it all, and the jittery bursts of electric guitar, before it all explodes with the dazzling, kaleidoscopic melody of the chorus, which soars to infectious heights that, the further along into the song Rodrigo pulls us, the more fun, and the brattier or snarkier it becomes—most notably in the way she plays with her vocal delivery in the bridge, pushing herself into a place that truly does tip its hat to a very specific kind of 1980s pop music as she more or less yelps with a coy sense of humor, “I give up! I give up! I give up everything! I placed my bets, and it’s not worth anything!”

“Love is Embarrassing,” like the other moments on Guts where Rodrigo, with ease, creates these enormous pop songs that demand you shout along to them, is unrelenting in its momentum—it isn’t overpowering, or never runs the risk of becoming simply “too much” in listening, but it is, like her ability to walk a line of dynamism between balladry and exuberant bangers, impressive that she can figure out, and then sustain, the right amount of momentum and enthusiasm—just enough to get you fired up, or excited, but never crosses over the line to where she has, perhaps, overstayed her welcome—“Love is Embarrassing,” for example, is only two and a half minutes in length, and it, like “Get Him Back,” or “Ballad of A Homeschooled Girl,” clips along at a nearly blistering pace. 

*

Fuck it, it’s fine.

Olivia Isabel Rodrigo whispers those four words after taking a pause. And she does with a certain inflection to her voice. It’s playful, maybe. Or maybe sultry, or seductive. Or maybe a little desperate—a desperation, or exasperation, both with herself—her needs, and the confusion that might come with understanding she does have needs in this moment; and a desperation, or exasperation with an off-stage boy who she is, despite her best efforts, going to meet, and whose bed she will later, as she puts it, trips and fall into.

The pause is brief and impactful, and her aside of “Fuck it, it’s fine, is, of course, said with this inflection—and within that inflection, you can hear both Rodrigo using it as a means to convince herself of something, but also using it as a knowing, or smirking, wink to the listener, before she aggressively pulls the song into the chorus. 

And before all of this, though, she quickly builds “Bad Idea, Right?” Toward a towering peak of cacophony but repeating variation on the titular phrase by uttering, “Seeing you tonight is a bad idea, right?,” and with each time the phrase leaves her mouth, her voice grows more and more manic as it sounds like she, again, is attempting to provide assurance or a convincing to herself or something she does not necessarily believe. 

“Seeing you tonight is a bad idea, right?,” she’s practically howling by the time this moment in the song reaches its climax prior to all of the crunchy, snarling instrumentation dropping out for just a single moment, and she whispers the answer to herself.

Fuck it, it’s fine.

And I have, up until this point, perhaps been a little preoccupied with what a portion of the original conceit of this—an overly verbose assessment of Guts, was going to be, which is, of course, what a portion of the original conceit has been for a number of pieces I have found myself writing within the last few years: do I belong in this specific corner of contemporary popular music, and if so, why?

Do I belong, or how I have I found myself so, apparently, comfortable and at times, maybe a little too at home, within pop music being made by young (and at times, extremely sad) women.

Olivia Isabel Rodrigo was born in 2003—she is now 20, and her age, and her lived experiences over the last two years since the release of her debut, Sour, have played a large role in the lyricism across Guts. I, in turn, was in college the year Rodrigo was born. In 2003, my second year of school was coming to an end, and my third, then, would begin in the fall. And my age (now, at this moment) and my lived experiences up to this point have played a large role in the uncertainty I have felt about if I do, really belong within the realm of this listenership. 

What is a 20-year-old woman singing about that a 40-year-old man can identify with at all?

Fuck it, it’s fine.

And it did take me until hearing “Bad Idea, Right?,” within the context of the album, as a whole, to understand or at least find some kind of acceptance in that many of us have, perhaps, found ourselves in a similar situation.

A bad idea that you are, perhaps to your own surprise, able to convince yourself to feel otherwise about it.  

The moment where you do find yourself, for whatever reason, whispering, “Fuck it, it’s fine.”

A moment when you were much, much younger, and within that youthfulness, perhaps did not understand—it would, of course, only come with time—that there is a line, or distinction, between lust, or infatuation, and love.

“Yes, I know that he’s my ex, but can’t two people reconnect?,” Rodrigo asks within the chorus, her words tumbling out with razor-sharp precision onto the pulse-pounding rhythm and snarling electric guitars that are swirling and tumbling around beneath her. 

“Can’t two people reconnect,” you may ask, in a moment when someone who had dealt you a small hand of heartbreak and in your youthfulness are unable to “get over,” and that someone, then, begins leaning in closer, their lips parting, and grazing against the skin of your neck, and your ear—places where you, in this moment, are surprised to find them, and you turn in, both literally and figuratively, and find yourself in the place of surrender where you and they, for just this fragment in time, concede to say, “Fuck it, it’s fine.” 

And arguably, there are songs that I would deem, or consider, to be more “fun” the further you get into Guts, comparatively, with the two songs released as singles ahead of the album—“Love is Embarrassing” is, for example, probably the most bombastic and freewheeling in terms of its levels of inherent “fun,” but “Bad Idea, Right?,” certainly has rightfully earned a place with the most fun, and most chaotic or wild, pieces on the album—specifically because of how intelligent its structure is, and Rodrigo’s commitment to piling on more and more elements until she lets it explode.

One of the reasons why “Bad Idea, Right?,” works is, then, because many of us have found ourselves in a situation similar to the one Rodrigo depicts, but regardless of the situation, and if something like it has been part of our lived experiences, it is how she cleverly builds the song, often through the use of repetition, pulling the listener into something that is a little hypnotic, yes, but it also does work to create a frenzied feeling of excitement. 

The verses to “Bad Idea” are playful, or fun, or however you want to put it—and they are delivered with a coyness, or aloofness in Rodrigo’s voice as she kind of talk/sings her way through them, and it is in the song’s two verses where she starts setting the stage for this potential, and potentially regrettable encounter with her ex. 

But it is in the moments that she continues to tug us into the explosive chorus where she begins to make use of that infectiousness, or hypnotic use of repetition, by dragging the last line of the verse into the first line of a refrain—“I know we’re done, I know we’re through,” she sings, “But god, when I look at you my brain goes ‘Ah,’” Roridigo continues, layering her vocals to give them depth, resonance, and a lightness that exudes a kind of writhing sense of fun. 

“Can’t hear my thoughts—like blah, blah blah,” she says, before things take a turn and there is the slightest of edges as she repeats, with a growing, frantic tone in her voice, “I should probably—probably not,” which, then, leads into the aforementioned mantra where Rodrigo, again with her voice continuing to rise, utters the titular phrase—“Seeing you tonight is a bad idea, right?,” both asking it as a question, directed at her ex, but also as a last-ditch effort to talk herself out of the decision she knows that she will ultimately make. 

“Bad Idea, Right?,” isn’t the first “big” moment on Guts—that comes in the oscillation that occurs right from the rip on the self-effacing, snarky “All-American Bitch,” but it is the first song where the kind of growth Rodrigo has undergone as a songwriter is apparent—leaning into an “all or nothing” kind of mentality, sonically, and doing so with an intelligence and a brattiness to pull it off that is undeniably impressive. 

*

Fame fucker.

And, months after Olivia Rodrigo released the first single off of Guts, there is something still inherently thrilling about the smolder, and build, and catharsis that comes from the chorus of “Vampire.” It, like the similar smolder, build, and catharsis that came from “Driver’s License,” at least for me, hasn’t gotten “old,” and honestly, there is little if any, risk of that.

And when I do think about contemporary popular music, now, in 2023, what I often think about is how we listen, or consume it, comparatively with how it was listened to, or consumed in the past—and how, now more than ever, we are in control of how much, and how often, we hear a song, or the kind of impact or influence we let it have on us—a song, specifically, like the absolutely enormous “Vampire.”

“Vampire,” as a preview of Guts, was a smart choice because there are enough traces of “Driver’s License” in it to make it feel, even upon the first listen, somehow very familiar—but it is unique enough, and much more bombastic and volatile that it is able to stand on its own without issue, and show that Rodrigo is a very capable songwriter and artist. It, as a preview of Guts, was certainly commercially successful in how it performed—topping the Billboard Hot 100, which means that yes, like “Driver’s License,” if you happen to listen to the radio, there is a chance you heard it quite often. I rarely, if ever, listen to the radio in the car, but even I heard “Vampire” a surprising amount of times—albeit a heavily censored version of it—played overhead at my day job this summer. 

And when I do think about contemporary popular music, now, in 2023, what I often think about is how we listen, or consume it, and how, now more than ever, we are in control of how much, or how often, we hear a song—a song that we choose to navigate to, or listen to on repeat, from our preferred music streaming service, or a song that, then, comes up on its own if we do allow the algorithm to ultimately provide additional music for us. 

“Vampire” arrives early on within the context of Guts—the slow-burning piano chords ringing out shortly after “Bad Idea, Right?” has faded out. And it, within the context of the album, is the kind of song that you might think, at first, could be skipped simply because it has existed in the world for a number of months, on its own, or that you, perhaps, have grown tired of hearing it, but for me, it is still an imperative listen from Rodrigo—there is still an absolute thrill in hearing how she carefully walks the line within the song’s intricate structure, playing the long game in terms of how it builds up and reaches smaller peaks before she continues to push it forward until it explodes completely, becoming a far cry from the quiet, almost tender way it opens. 

There is, of course, still an absolute thrill from the way Rodrigo carries her voice, letting it soar higher and higher until it reaches the now instantly iconic chorus of, “Bloodsucker. Fame fucker. Bleeding me dry like a goddamn vampire.”

“Vampire,” like how it walks the line of tension and explosive release, also walks the line carefully between being a song that relies both on its writing, as well as its “vibe,” or at least the feeling that it ultimately creates. The narrative Rodrigo creates is compelling, and is extremely vivid in her depiction of another relationship gone south—this time, though, it seems much worse, comparatively, and the toll that this person took on her.

And she is breathless in how she quickly lets her voice coast through the verses, especially when the song picks up its pacing following her first run through the chorus, cramming as many words and syllables into the song’s breakneck melody, which moves as fast as it does to, simply, get her back into the build-up to the chorus. “You’re so convincing,” she sings with regret in the second verse before asking, “How do you lie without flinching?” 

“What a mesmerizing, paralyzing, fucked up little thrill—can’t figure out just how you do it, and god knows I never will,” she continues, the intensity in her delivery growing. “Went for me and not her—‘cause girls your age know better.”

And the thrill of the song, of course, comes in the scream-along chorus, where Rodrigo’s voice builds and then towers over the listener with the line, “You made me look so naive the way you sold me for parts as you sunk your teeth into me,” before singing through gritted teeth, “Bloodsucker. Fame fucker. Bleeding me dry like a goddamn vampire.” And the thrill of the song, of course, comes in just how startling the explosive bombast of thundering percussion and enormous sounding electric guitar strums is—pounding down, note after note, with a pummeling precision that keeps picking up speed until it simply becomes too much to handle. 

The thrill of the song is, like “Driver’s License,” even after you have heard it a number of times, and know or can anticipate what is going to happen and where Rodrigo is going to take you—the thrill is still in how exciting it is to hear every time. 

*

And what is, perhaps, most surprising, or the thing that is the most fascinating, about Guts, outside of the enormous amount of growth Rodrigo has undergone between the time she was writing and recording Sour until now, and the heights that this album does climb to, often, and in doing so, is done so effortlessly, is that within that growth, or maturation, and within the heights that Guts ascends to, there is a startling kind of sonic depth that resonates through a number of the songs, but two in particular, to me, or for me, were more impressive, or impactful, than the others.

And what is, perhaps, most surprising is that it is the saddest, or bleakest songs, on Guts, that I am the most drawn to.

Rodrigo, as she demonstrates across Guts, and even across Sour, does a ballad well—it smolders, and it builds, and it falls in all of the right places. And tucked near the halfway point on the album, after the brash and bratty “Ballad of A Homeschooled Girl” (not a ballad at all in the traditional sense), is the simmering, pensive “Making The Bed,” which is among the album’s most personally telling and self-reflective.

Musically, “Making The Bed” operates from a real place of smolder and tension—it begins like a whisper, or at least something intentionally hushed, opening with a small build of synthesizer drones that quickly break the moment Rodrigo utters the opening line. Underneath her, then, as “Making” finds its way, are low ripples of sound that oscillate and quiver, creating an icy, and isolating feeling. 

And there is direction, or a rhythm hidden away in there somewhere—it’s faint, and is purposefully stowed in the gentle, but resonant bass string plucks that cut through the pulsating synthesizer. 

But the song does gently, and beautifully tumble together when it arrives in the chorus, with muffled, distant-sounding percussion kind of pulling everything together and creating something rhythmic that Rodrigo then sadly, and slowly, sways to. And it stays here, within this layered, dense, and rather somber place, barely rising above it, and when it does, near the end, the cascading waves never get away from her, or, rather, she never allows herself to be swept away by them, but rather she stands firm in the slow swirling and spiraling of a seemingly unending whirl that makes a haunting, gorgeous, moment in time.

Rodrigo is not the first artist, of any age, to write herself into a song, and, in doing so, write about the personal, or emotional, or much more private things that come with the amount of success and the amount of fame she has earned over the last two years, but the inward turn of “Making The Bed” makes it about the price that comes with that kind of fame, or at least the notion that success, or fortunes, doesn’t make someone feel any less lonely or full of sorrow.

And Rodrigo, as a writer, is intelligent enough not to allow it to teeter into an eye roll-inducing “woe is me” territory, but instead, opts to make a number of stark, harrowing observations about where she is, and what it feels like at certain moments to be there, speaking from a disaffected place that is similar in tone to “Getting Older,” from Billie Eilish’s Happier Than Ever.

“Want it so I got it,” Rodrigo begins, her voice low and remorseful. “Did it, so it’s done. Another thing I ruined I used to do for fun,” she continues, before continuing the dark, or self-effacing turn on herself. “Another conversation with nothing good to say. I thought it, so I said it, took it ‘cause I can. Another day pretending I’m older than I am.”

“Making The Bed,” in its arresting aesthetic, begins an even darker descent within its second verse, and specifically within its chorus. “Overnight, I wake up from this one recurring dream,” she explains later in the song. “Where I’m driving through the city, and the brakes go out on me. I can’t stop at the red light—I can’t swerve off the road. I read somewhere it’s ‘cause my life feels so out of control.”

And there is a feeling, or at least an emotional low point, that we, perhaps, all reach in some way, where we become sick of ourselves—or if not “sick,” then at least frustrated, or exhausted, or disappointed by patterns we repeat, or where we have found ourselves within a moment. 

And it is this kind of feeling, or low point, that Rodrigo poignantly dissects in the chorus to “Making The Bed,” where she does craft, in a way that finds the balance between a delicacy and an intense, deep sadness, one of the most personally compelling moments on Guts. There are, of course, a number of phrase turns that linger—“Push away all the people who know me the best, but it’s me who’s been making the bed,” or, “Every good thing has turned into something I dread and I’m playing the victim so well in my head,” but it is, ultimately, the first line of the chorus that is the one does resonate the deepest, and is among the more difficult to hear reflections from the album: “Sometimes I feel like I don’t wanna be where I am.”

*

Sonically, even when they were paired and began working together on Sour, Nigro, and Rodrigo did, arguably, take a number of risks, or at least were willing to push things into more genuinely interesting places when compared to what other artists operating within the field of contemporary popular music might be willing to do—sometimes it was something pretty obvious, or very apparent, like the contrast of whimsy and dissonance in “Deja Vu,” and sometimes it was down to a very minor but important detail, like the meticulousness given to the little whirring sound used throughout “Driver’s License.”

Nigro and Rodrigo, in their collaboration as co-writers, do continue to push things sonically, or aesthetically, across Guts—the pop-punk aggression hits even harder, and the hooks are sky high in just how huge they can become, but w/r/t arranging alone, or at least the instrumentation, the late-arriving “Pretty Isn’t Pretty” is the song where Rodrigo takes the most risks and the payoff creates one of the most genuinely interesting songs on the record.

Regardless of who the end listener of Guts winds up being, Rodrigo, as a young woman who is writing about her lived experiences, the intent, then, is that her songs primarily speak to a specific demographic—women of a similar age to her. And as she did on Sour, and continues to do on Guts, she does write about the pressures, or difficulties that young women struggle with when it comes to their appearance, and the comparisons they make between themselves and others—acknowledging how unhealthy habits like that can be, but understanding that there is no easy answer on how to let go of that, and accept who you are, and how you are.

Lyrically, there is both a snarl and a desperation in how Rodrigo depicts her opinion of herself in “Pretty Isn’t Pretty,” with both the snarl and the desperation growing larger the further along into the song we get, and within the verses as well as the chorus, she does return to the familiar or at least adjacent sentiments explored on “Making The Bed” of feeling frustrated or disappointed with yourself—“There’s always something missing,” she explains in the first verse. “There’s always something in the mirror that I think looks wrong.”

“You fix the things you hated, and you’d still feel so insecure,” she continues later in a line which, like many, speaks to the conceit of the song—that “pretty isn’t pretty enough,” and that she, herself, has no answer to the question she poses after that of, “What do you do?”

The song, though, is among Guts’ most musically interesting because of the downcast, borderline “indie rock” aesthetic that it takes—there is a dreamy, woozy feeling to it, thanks to the effects used on the guitar track, as well as kind of somber yet infectious chord progression used, along with a very thick bass line reverberating throughout the fabric of the song and the crisp, crunchy production on the drum kit. 

And I do try, in writing about music, not to draw comparisons between one artist and another—specifically when I am writing about a newer, or less established artist that might have a sound eerily similar to, or be heavily influenced by, someone else. I do, in the end, what the music, or the songwriting, to be able to hold its own without needing to name-drop someone else to get my point across, but the longer I sat with “Pretty Isn’t Pretty”—and mostly listening to the way Rodrigo’s voice and all the other elements kind of collide and swoon within the melody of the chorus, and the emphasis she leans into within her performance on certain phrases, seemed very familiar to me, or at least reminiscent of something else, and what I landed on was the work of Lindsey Jordan’s project Snail Mail—in particular the earnestness found on her 2018 breakthrough Lush. 

A risk, perhaps, or at least something daring that does ultimately stand out, or draw a little more attention to itself, given the other places that Rodrigo might feel more comfortable, but “Pretty Isn’t Pretty” does, in its density and haze, continue to show just how dynamic of an artist she is.

*

And I had both gone into Guts, as an album, and into this reflection on it, and my experience listening to it, with a loose conceit in mind. And this doesn’t always happen—sometimes, in writing, regardless of whether it is about music, or about something else, or the intersection between those things that I find myself writing from most of the time, I find that, with a conceit in mind, or an understanding of what I want to say, I am usually able to reach an ending.

Sometimes, it is even an end, or a conclusion that I think the piece needs, or deserves, and if that is the case, my hope then is that the words, and thoughts, that carry you, the reader, and me, as the writer, to that ending make it feel like it was earned.

Sometimes, though, and this doesn’t always happen—but sometimes, though, there will be a shift, or a change, while it is coming together. Not enough of a change, or a shift, to require that I scrap something completely, or begin exhaustively rewriting parts of it, but enough of a change, or a shift, causes me to rethink or reconsider, as I slowly make my way to the ending that I think that I want, and hope that the piece ultimately earned.

And it, of course, has been a question this whole time, simply because that is how I have felt while listening to Guts, because that is how I felt while listening to Sour. It has been a question when I found myself drawn to Good Riddance by Gracie Abrams. It was, perhaps, a question that lingered when I was among the fortunate to have a seat at The Eras Tour.

Olivia Isabel Rodrigo was born in 2003. And this year she turned 20—her age, and her life over the last two years, playing an enormous role in the observations and lyricism on Guts; I was finishing my second year, then entering into my third, of college in 2003. And this year, I turned 40—and my age, and my life, can, though maybe I should not fall prey to it, can play a role in the uncertainty I have felt about if I do belong, at all, within this kind of listenership.

What is my place, if I am even to have one, or be granted one, within the realm of pop music?

And I, as I often do, have been thinking about my place, if I am even to have one, or be granted one, as a listener or member of the audience within the realm of pop music—specifically pop music that is being made by young (and at times, sad) women.

Olivia Isabel Rodrigo was born in 2003—she turned 20 this year, and her age, and her lived experiences over the last two years since the release of her debut, Sour, play a large role in the poignant lyricism across Guts. 

I was in college the year Rodrigo was born—in 2003, I was finishing my second year, and entering into my third. It was the year I turned 20, and my age, and my lived experiences, play a role in the uncertainty I have felt, at times, about if I do belong within the listenership, or the audience, of an artist like Rodrigo, specifically.

What is a 20-year-old woman singing about that a 40-year-old man can identify with at all?

And that was, in a sense, going to be the conceit, or the through line, with this reflection—it was the through line, or the way in, that I have found, and used, and perhaps overused, when writing about pop music over the last few years. 

And, two years ago, the conclusion I had landed on—or at least the end that I felt I had earned, when writing about Sour was that regardless of our age, Rodrigo’s music often does speak to something universal within many of us—and at the time, thinking it was the most articulate way to write about it, had said that her writing, and the feelings within it do tap into the angsty, sullen teenager within all of us. 

In the brash, punky “Good 4 U,” she howls the line, “Maybe I’m too emotional,” and the question I posed was—well, aren’t we all? And if we are, is there something wrong with that? 

Guts as an album, at this point, has been out in the world for a number of weeks, and it wasn’t until recently that I came to understand that I had been partially, if not completely, framing my listening experience incorrectly.

In a series of Instagram stories, where he often thrives in terms of short bursts of information, humor, or wisdom, Hanif Abdurraqib, reflected on, yes, his feelings on Guts, but more importantly, his reaction to music analysis or criticism that ultimately was making too much out Rodrigo’s age, or who her target demographic or listenership was. “I just see so much stuff that centers on someone loving the tunes but attaching all of these caveats to the love of the tunes,” he begins. “Or making a joke out of the love of the tunes,” he continues, before getting to the part that struck me the most. “Or, somehow otherwise placing a barrier between themselves and their affection—and that puzzles me.”

Abdurraqib, ever eloquent and thoughtful, even when he perhaps is not totally intending to be, keeps going. “This is good, widely acclaimed pop music. That it is a young woman making it doesn’t change the math of the music’s quality or why someone might be drawn to it. And I think that approach kind of undermines the songs—undermines the fact that this is someone who appears to be taking her craft seriously.”

And he is right, of course, about it all.

Right out of the gate, on Sour, Rodrigo was an artist who was, clearly, taking her craft as a performer and songwriter very, very seriously. The stakes are undeniably high on Guts, and Rodrigo delivers—it is an incredible pop album that does deserve and demands to be taken seriously, and respected, and Olivia Rodrigo is an artist, and writer, who also deserves and demands the same.

Abdurraqib continued in a second Instagram story that he did not feel that the songs, themselves, are written outside of what he called the realm of relatability because they are written by someone who is in their very early 20s. “I think what makes the songwriting effective is in its broad approach that begins from a thematically wide sense before getting into the weeds of specificities,” he notes. “But the emotional afflictions and affections within the work aren’t uniquely ‘young’ or especially outside the realm of ‘adult enjoyment.’”

Emotional afflictions and affections are not uniquely young.

Maybe I’m too emotional.

But, aren’t we all?

And if we all are, is that a bad thing?

*

And I suppose, then, in Guts’ final moments, Rodrigo does comment, as she is able, on her age, and how she is perceived because of it, among other things. And this commentary isn’t exactly, like, a definitive statement for the album, but it does create a stark and surprisingly difficult portrait that lingers with you well after the song and the album has come to an end. 

“When am I gonna stop being wise beyond my years and just start being wise,” she laments in the opening line of the aptly titled “Teenage Dream,” which, in its structure and within the very pensive, reflective, and almost mournful or bittersweet nature of its lyricism, is the kind of song that was written with the intention to be a closing track—creating a rather stunning and thought-provoking conclusion.

“Teenage Dream,” lyrically, like “Making The Bed,” is one of the more personal, or inward songs on the album, but in her writing here, Rodrigo uses the time to explore what it means to be a young woman, within the “music industry,” understanding that she is growing and maturing, and her desire to be taken seriously as an artist, regardless of her age at either the time the song was written (when she was 19) or when it was released. 

“When am I gonna stop being great for my age and just start being good?,” she asks just a few lines later, still in the first verse. “When will it stop being cool to be quietly misunderstood?”

And perhaps what does make “Teenage Dream” so difficult to hear, despite how tender and beautiful it is in the arranging, specifically within the first half, is how Rodrigo is writing from a place of borderline regret; or, if not regret, second-guessing, along with the understanding that things can, and will, change—but there is no easy, or clear answer on what that change means. 

“Will I spend all the rest of my years wishing I could go back?,” she asks at the end of the second verse before arriving, again, at the melancholic phrasing of the chorus. “I’ll blow out the candles—happy birthday to me,” Rodrigo sings. “Got your whole life ahead of you—you’re only 19. But I fear that they already got the best parts of me, and I’m sorry that I couldn’t always be your teenage dream.”

And I am thinking about how emotional afflictions and affections are not uniquely for the young, and that maybe I, in fact, am too emotional, but that maybe we all are. And if we all are, is that necessarily a bad thing.

And I am thinking about the place that Rodrigo takes us near the very end of “Teenage Dream,” with what serves as a bridge and pulls the song to a cacophonic peak before it finds resolve—the bridge, then, all four lines of it, repeated over and over, becoming one of the most powerful moments on the record as a whole. 

The bridge, then, two lines from it specifically, being among the most personally resonant for me.

“They all say that it gets better. It gets better—but what if I don’t?”

And there are, of course, layers to unpack with that, and what it means for both Olivia Rodrigo, and what it means for a listener like myself.

For Rodrigo, it is, in a way, a backhanded compliment, or an assurance as she moves forward within her career. If she is struggling, or finding difficulties now, the consolation of “It gets better” is, of course, well intended by whomever is saying it to her—but regardless of the “it” getting better, within the context of “Teenage Dream” itself, she does begin to wonder if she has, perhaps, already peaked, and that there is no more growth or maturation for her as a person, and as a performer. 

It gets better. But what if I don’t?

And I will admit, in breaking the fourth wall between you, the reader, and myself, that as we approach 10,000 words, this is maybe not the best time, or the right time, to introduce the idea of my own fragile mental health into something that I have written. They all say that it gets better, though.

It gets better. But what if I don’t?

And I am thinking, as I often do, about the last decade or so, and the extremely low, or bleak places that I have, much to my own surprise and the surprise of those around me, been able to claw my way up, and out of. And I am thinking about the times, because there were times, much to my own surprise and the surprise of those around me, that were better, or less bleak, or where I had been pulled down to some place extremely low.

And I am thinking about the last three years, specifically, and the toll that they have taken on everyone, certainly, and what they have done to me, and how what they have done to me has impacted those that I am closest to. And I am thinking about the low, bleak places that the last three years have brought me, which is no longer a place that I am confident that I will be able to claw my way out of, but rather, it is a place where I will reside, because I am uncertain if I know anything else other than this.

They all say that it gets better, though, and I think about the hours in therapy, putting in the work and the prescription medications, and the fear and uncertainty and intimidation that comes with exploring unconventional methods of treating mental illness, and they say that it gets better though, and I think about the way that I have felt, over time, like I continue to slowly fade further and further away, and the connections that ultimately plays a role in severing, or makes difficult to maintain, and about the feeling of sadness that I am hopelessly attempting to stay one step ahead of but rarely, if ever, am able to.

They all say that it gets better.

It gets better.

What if I don’t.

Maybe, in the end, I am too emotional. But aren’t we all in some way? And if we all are, is that such a bad thing?

*

And there is no real reason to place a barrier of some kind between yourself, and an earnest, sincere enjoyment of pop music—specifically Olivia Rodrigo, and specifically Guts. It is a daring and thoughtful statement from an artist who arrived to us a little over two years ago, practically fully developed in an artistic vision, and who has only continued to grow into herself and he confidence since then. 

There is certainly a youthfulness and an exuberance to Guts and to Rodrigo’s output, but the emotional afflictions and affections she details are not uniquely to the young, and when you do open yourself up to it, without caveats, or barriers, you can see just how bold, dazzling, and remarkably whip-smart the experience is.