Way back last October, Olivia Rodrigo’s GUTS released, captivating me to the point that it led to a brief foray into amateur music criticism and to the eventual position of Rodrigo at the top of my Spotify Wrapped. I didn’t really precisely understand what I found so undeniable about the album: It’s odd to be a person so skeptical of popular cinema only to have the milquetoast music taste of an AI-generated character from a Netflix high school sitcom. But besides the obvious earworm-y quality of the songs and palpable angst of the vocals, Rodrigo managed to so perfectly and bluntly hit a specific familiar stream of consciousness that resonated with me and society more broadly. She’s popular — I’m just describing pop music.
Anyway, GUTS (spilled) — the album’s deluxe edition — released last Friday, featuring five new songs and a slight cover variant with very tiny text. As an avid fan nevertheless trying to avoid a Spotify Wrapped repeat, I did eagerly listen to the new tracks, but only after being reminded of the album’s existence by a friend texting me with (probably) a bit of derision. And, at the risk of sounding like a man in line to see Face to Face in 1977, it just didn’t really hit me on a gut (no pun intended) level. Sure, the compositions were catchy, consumable; I’d expect nothing less at this point. There were a couple moments that I almost felt captured a version of me — “stranger” got so close to ringing true — and there was enough there that I’ve listened to it four or so times already. But all in all, it wasn’t quite my wavelength. This aggressively moment-to-moment description of events was still there, but where it had before reflected my own felt experiences, this was just words… this was someone else. She wasn’t just like me for real.
In a way, the experience was exciting. There is, regardless of what I may admit on an individual case-by-case basis, a bit of a rush in being a contrarian against popular culture. To sense that something is designed for everyone… or at least transmitted to everyone, and to get to stake one’s claim as a member of the out group. It’s exhilarating. It’s also not that hard to feel good about avoiding too much of that overwhelming angst Rodrigo trafficks in; perhaps all it takes is a better mood to render her lyrics moot. But it’s also sad to experience the music of someone you’d consider a favorite and just not vibe with it. There’s an anxiety that comes with that: The unlimited promise of a 21-year-old with two spectacular albums under her belt begins to metastasize with an anxiety that perhaps it’s all downhill from here. With popular music, one can only conjure that collective unconscious for so long.
But this wasn’t that. That’s to say it wasn’t a listen that made me skeptical or scared or worried. It wasn’t bad or inadequate, it just wasn’t for me. And that was weird: to some extent, pop isn’t supposed to adhere to the rules of “not for me,” save for the occasional contrarian take. Moreso, how to reconcile the fact that Rodrigo had, in my consciousness, ascended beyond that popular music? She’s one of my favorites. It feels as though she speaks directly to me. Rodrigo — the body of work, not the literal person — belongs to me. This attribution of specialness and favorites works super well when it comes to the indie band or off-the-beaten-path EP that becomes your obsession and yours only. There’s also room for ambiguity. Your relative enthusiasm still allows you the sense of belonging. But for pop?
That’s the thing. Olivia Rodrigo doesn’t belong to anybody. No one has a special relationship to Lana Del Rey — even if Sun Columnist Leo Glasgow ’26 might wish it were so. Establishing any level of credentials as a certified Swiftie requires a degree of conspiratorial obsession rivaling Q-anon. There are ways of getting around pop and into the personal — just ask any Dylan fan who claims Saved as their favorite album. But the point, the value, of pop music is that it’s not for the singular you. It’s for the collective you. And no matter how many Billy Joel exposures, unreturned scarves or Cipriani’s basement trips you have, your relationship to the artist will never be special. So, it didn’t hit me on a gut level. That’s fine: it needn’t always. I do hope Rodrigo is able to continue capturing a zeitgeist as she continues to accumulate experiences within the inhumane confines of fame — or else evolve her style beyond the diary entry reflections of SOUR, GUTS and Spilled. If she doesn’t, perhaps she’ll convert to some or other religion or release an odd or disliked album that I can use to claim unique fandom.
Max Fattal is a junior in the School of Industrial Labor Relations. They can be reached at [email protected].