Through the confessional voices of Alanis Morissette, Fiona Apple, Regina Spektor, Adrianne Lenker, Lana Del Rey, Taylor Swift, Gracie Abrams, and more, this essay traces a feminine lineage of indie and pop songwriting that transforms tenderness into insurgence, memory into melody, and confession into cultural legacy. Weaving together music criticism, personal insight, and cultural analysis, it explores how vulnerability became both a weapon and a myth in the hands of women whose voices echo across generations. Once brimming with dissonance and emotional friction, the underground diaries of indie girlhood now echo through platinum heartbreak anthems.
by guest writer Isabela Costa
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The concept of uniqueness has evolved with every passing decade.
Independent artists don’t always chase the latest trends, but the personal stories they share, which are rooted in lived experience and the wild energy of their subcultures. Naturally, they often crystallize into patterns that come to define their scenes. And before you know it, those patterns begin to appear everywhere, blossoming into the next big trend. Today, authenticity feels inseparable from a performative (but deeply felt) vulnerability, a quality independent female artists embody with striking creative autonomy. The current hunger for diaristic songwriting, especially among young female audiences, is fueling a wave of tender inventiveness.
Together, today’s indie girls are shaping an effervescent soundscape that lovingly nods to the artists who came before them. The addictive charm of beabadoobee’s music evokes the sugary longing and sun-drenched haze of Belle & Sebastian, while layering in her own spin on Pavement’s effortlessly satirical sketches, drawn with unpretentious lo-fi strokes. Her album This Is How Tomorrow Moves might just be Gen Z’s deliciously feminine reflection of Teenage Fanclub’s Bandwagonesque.
Samia’s “Bovine Excision” is a meditation on what one can become in relation to the quiet transformations of the world around her. It’s an elegant self-discovery that unfolds through the observation of the external. The softly woven musical progression alchemizes the mundane into a miraculous metamorphosis of self. Her latest album, Bloodless, deepens this exploration of godlike transformations emerging from life’s most ordinary moments, all filtered through a distinct DIY visual language with a hint of horror. “Lizard” carries a contemporary psychedelic undertone that instantly transports me to the soundscapes of trailblazing indie bands like Animal Collective.
If You Asked For a Picture, the sophomore album from Sabrina Teitelbaum’s Blondshell, is also among the most anticipated 2025 releases by this wave of brilliant female songwriters. To me, Blondshell feels less atmospheric – her sound evokes the rawness of The Breeders, with that signature ’90s guitar fuzz and a cadence that recalls Kim Deal’s effortlessly cool delivery, each syllable chewed and savored. You can hear that energy since Sepsis, and it carries through in the newly released tracks “T&A” and “23’s a Baby.” But there’s a twist of youthful catchiness now that edges her closer to her own version of Liz Phair.
fStigmata Christi (1486) from the Waldburg-Gebetbuch
In the mainstream, we are talking about a vulnerability that is often monetized by the one element that propels an artist’s career: scandal. Self-revelatory lyrics once served as a survival mechanism for artists like Fiona Apple. They still do for her and for several other musicians whose relationship with the industry is tumultuous, yet their connection to their art remains nurturing. Fiona has always been outspoken about past traumas, and despite facing an industry that ostracized her (dismissive of her talent and aggressively focused on her body) her listeners are not merely seeking the trauma in her lyrics. They are invested in the music itself.
Fiona Apple didn’t start with the kind of privacy she enjoys now, and her fans have never been entirely detached from her personal life. The most common consequence of a public career for someone so openly confrontational is retaliation. In Fiona’s case, perhaps this worked for the best, as she is too real for a fake industry anyway, and the niche praise she receives now likely provides her with a sense of peace. Tidal was already the strongest debut an artist could hope for. I believe that “Sleep to Dream” reflects the following logic: attack before I am attacked, and attack as a form of defense. The production is a feverish dream, but the lyrics are grounded in reality.
“Shadowboxer” might initially appear as a formally conventional track, but with eyes closed, the song feels like a late-night car ride in an empty city, guided by Fiona’s deep voice, where the fleeting interruption of a xylophone brings a brief moment of light before it fades into the night again. “Pale September” is as quiet and private as a conversation with God – another nocturnal and feverish song on an album so few prolific artists could hope to debut with.
The praise and critical acclaim of her first album did not exempt Fiona from the media’s scrutiny, to which she would respond with her second record, When the Pawn… It was the beginning of a cathartic anger that would become one of Fiona’s most defining traits and likely the reason she was pushed away from the mainstream fame she so rightly deserved. The jazzy quality of the album is deeply expressive; “Fast As You Can” exemplifies a subversion of a classical structure, diving instead into an unpolished jazz that communicates discomfort more effectively.
“Paper Bag” deserves all the praise it continues to receive, and a particular moment in the song was recently highlighted by Samia in a conversation with Pitchfork: “He said it’s all in your head, and I said, ‘So is everything,’ but he didn’t get it.” It’s a funny, sharp insight because every complaint we disclose, every suggestion, every protest, and every demand originates in our heads. That is the point of speaking. Only someone who refuses to be silenced could so cleverly arrive at such insightful lines. This is one of the reasons I love Fiona Apple.
In her subsequent project, I personally consider “Daredevil” to be a loud and raw demand for respect, characterized by Fiona’s dominant yet vulnerable vocals and persona so clearly. The parity between dominance and vulnerability is even more evident in “Every Single Night,” a track from her 2012 album, where her vocals seamlessly shift from soft to commanding, as a hypnotic melody repeats, bringing a flavor of neuroticism. Neuroticism is perhaps already a theme in “Extraordinary Machine,” but there is a deliciously crafted optimism in both the lyrics and the musicality.
“Not About Love” might seem like controlled, slightly paranoid distress that erupts in a verse of untamed verbiage that reveals an unstoppable, witty mind. The overlapping trembling noises, persevering repetitions of words in hot-blooded verses, and experimentation with percussion on her last album, Fetch the Bolt Cutters, are the perfect soundtrack for a turbulent mindset that refuses to accept any form of abuse anymore.
In contrast, confessional writing takes on an entirely different shape in Taylor Swift’s carefully constructed universe. Online discussions, suggestive tabloids, and an almost obsessive fan base demand to uncover the real names and actual events behind the lines she sings. Naturally, Taylor’s approach has sparked a new wave of female songwriters adopting a diaristic style, and I can’t help but wonder what happened to simply listening to a song for its music, without speculating on someone’s private life. Vulnerable artists are celebrated for their courage – until they cross the unspoken boundaries of behavior.
The rules for performing vulnerability are many, and Selena Gomez seems to have broken and adhered to all of them in equal measure. This delicate balance has made her one of the most dependable celebrities in the public eye. Her story as a child star created a deep bond with an audience that has stayed loyal to her through heartbreaks and health struggles. Like many Disney stars, Selena was thrown into the world of substances and hostile media from a young age. The ritualistic backlash from a conservative public often follows artists who leave Disney or Nickelodeon, with their edgy new identities linked directly to the duties early fame has taken on them.
Selena, however, would never risk the fame that transformed her family’s life, and so she distanced herself from Disney with caution and grace. Still, she could not escape the endless cycle of rumors that celebrity culture thrives on, particularly the sort that only exists to fuel irrelevant narratives. More troubling, Selena also couldn’t escape a dangerous kidney transplant to survive lupus, nor a period in rehab, followed by the unexpected marriage of her first love.
Despite the uninvited chaos that has followed Selena throughout the years, it has never overshadowed her image as a classy, majestically elegant star – qualities that are unfortunately still all too rarely associated with Latinas in Hollywood. In this way, she has cultivated a solid admiration from the masses, and suddenly, everyone I know wishes to see Selena Gomez happy.
I Said I Love You First is the first album by Selena Gomez that honors her capacity. I was captivated by the potential of an intimate project created by an established star and her fiancé, producer Benny Blanco. Selena’s soft, whispery voice fits effortlessly within the universe defined by bedroom pop and a moody seduction à la Lana Del Rey. The track “Ojos Tristes,” a collaboration with The Marías, carries an ethereal sorrow that highlights Selena’s artistic growth. It made me realize that up until now, she had been misdirected by producers and a label that saw her only as a radio filler. In I Said I Love You First, Selena’s artistic persona is finally recognized and celebrated.
As for Benny Blanco, public opinion shifted from “He’s not pretty enough for her” to “He is so sweet and everything she deserves.” Although I am personally too skeptical to fall for highly publicized displays of affection, most of the audience was seduced by Selena’s romantic redemption. The parasocial relationship between Gomez and her fanbase finally found comfort with her new relationship.
It may be a stretch, but I see parallels to the legendary Jane Birkin and Serge Gainsbourg in their Americanized version. If their interviews are part of a promotional strategy to highlight their loving relationship, at least they appear genuine and satisfy the public’s desire to see Selena freed from her past. Petra Collins has captured the essence of the female gaze in the “Sunset Blvd” music video. Selena Gomez embodies the most magnetic version of a 1990s supermodel, while a miniature of Benny Blanco plays the role of her quiet and supportive counterpart.
The album shines in its attempt to reevaluate the past, touching on many aspects beyond romantic relationships. The track “Younger and Hotter Than Me” serves as a farewell to the glory days of Disney Channel, while subtly reconciling with one’s self-perception, but without offering any neat resolution. Produced by Finneas, the song carries the celestial sorrow that Billie Eilish has so masterfully woven into her own work. It is evident that there is a conscious effort to bring the trendiest household names, cementing I Said I Love You First as Selena’s true artistic endeavor. Among these collaborators is Charli XCX, one of the producers of “Bluest Flame,” the hyperpop interlude in the album.The bubblegum-pop duet with Gracie Abrams introduces a new generation of girls to Selena Gomez.
While the album boasts many contributors, it feels purposefully casual, emulating an intimate atmosphere shaped by the sincere exchanges between a couple. Despite its balanced musical highs and lows, the album will most likely be remembered for its haunting suspensions and gut-wrenching moments, particularly “How Does It Feel To Be Forgotten.” Many will inevitably associate the track with the Biebers, whether or not Selena intended it that way. I Said I Love You First is a pop record that delicately explores the misty, elusive soundscapes found within the female indie scene.
It’s easy to hear echoes of Hope Sandoval’s romantic vocal delivery and the enchanting sonic world of Mazzy Star throughout the album. At times, even Cat Power’s melancholic, breathy tone drifts into mind during the softer ballads. Through a more contemporary lens, one can also sense the influence of Clairo’s debut, Immunity, in Gomez and Blanco’s project – particularly in the airy, translucent melodies. Of course, the allure of indie artists for pop producers extends far beyond I Said I Love You First.
I also listened to The Secret of Us by Gracie Abrams, and I found myself hoping to uncover the hidden thread between her songwriting and the predominantly female audience devoted to her. Gracie’s presence resembles that of a well-traveled Ivy League student – an habitué of Michelin-starred restaurants, secret art galleries secluded in New York alleys, and weekend escapes to the Hamptons. I might be the last Rory Gilmore defender still standing, and I do have a soft spot for the imperfect and complex Chilton Girls of the world – but I wonder if Gracie hesitates to part with her carefully curated, elegantly distant persona to find imperfection. Her gift as a vocalist is undeniable.
Each word she sings lands with intent, her voice rises from a place of subtle tension and carries a scratchy undertone between breaths that lends it texture and fragility. One of her most visible attributes is a kind of breathless speed-singing, as if trying to keep pace with a racing mind. In Risk, this agile chanting captures the adrenaline rush of questionable romantic decisions. Bright Eyes has always struck me as a craft of intricate, word-heavy tales rather than melodically challenging compositions, but Conor Oberst’s meticulous introspective identity and pictorial detail justifies the lyrical spotlight. In contrast, “Risk” feels too repetitive for a song that relies so heavily on words, and too avoidant when it comes to specificity.
After a while, I found myself unable to distinguish one track from another. The songs blurred together and I lost my sense of space and time. This sensation isn’t rare in projects led by frontwomen who dip into folk or country with a pop intention. I ended Maggie Rogers’ latest album with a similar impression of gentle, yet one-dimensional blurriness. The tracks melted into each other. I respect Rogers and her fanbase, but I can’t seem to remember any sound crafted by the “Don’t Forget Me” author; it slips away the moment it ends. Still, I tried to keep my mind open. In “The Kill,” I noticed a melodic influence from New Order or a subtle nod to ’80s new wave. It’s a clever and adventurous touch in an album otherwise rooted in country.
Yet even that wasn’t quite enough to lift the record from the expected soundtrack of a polished, suburban gas station – not the moody, melancholic kind from an Edward Hopper painting, but a renovated one with clean shelves, fluorescent lights, and middle-class WASP families stopping on their long weekend road trips. That’s not necessarily a bad thing. It fits into the same category of sonic memory as Sixpence None the Richer, 4 Non Blondes, Dido, Natalie Imbruglia, and many other artists who live rent-free in our minds, whose lyrics we remember involuntarily. Perhaps Maggie’s intellectualism is on its way to transitioning into that kind of catchiness destined for wide commercial success.
I know it might sound like I’m treating intellectualism as an offense, but in folk, I crave a kind of divine messiness, the prophecy you don’t find in books, only in breath and broken notes. Listening to an unpolished voice just holds some kind of generational wisdom or stories passed through orality. So you become part of a collective memory listening to that voice, instead of another listener. I have the sensation that Rogers is thinking while singing and that she is extremely organized in her craft, but I want to be tricked by folk singers. I know they are all perfectionists, but during the minutes of the song I want to believe that their brilliance is purely an accident.
I have this feeling of unintentional fortune with Adrianne Lenker. When I hear her, it’s as if I am hearing everyone that talked and will talk to her during her lifetime. There is something almost ephemeral in her album, Bright Future, it slips through my fingers but leaves wet particles on my hand. The opening track, “Real House,” gently touches on bewildering memories. But it is not disorienting, because there is a calm and faith that memories work in this nuanced puzzling way. The stillness in “Cell Phone Says” recalls a primordial folk song, something familiar. This level of intimacy in the melody complements so beautifully the wistful lyrics for correspondence.
The human distance is so related to the contrasts and changes in nature: winter and spring or moths and dragonflies. Because this album arrives like a seed of lullaby planted in nowhereland, it is particularly interesting to listen to “Vampire Empire.” In this album the song sounds like a rustic portrayal of a confusing interconnection, while in the Big Thief version it has a crescent despair with a certain punk touch. These two versions show Lenker’s multifaceted ability as an interpreter and her level of autonomy towards her songwriting. Although she is successful, Lenker defies comparison to commercial hitmakers; her achievement is personal.
Gracie Abrams, on the other hand, has already found a solid place in the charts – a position that, while not the sole measure of artistic worth, is still a meaningful accomplishment. I kept searching for something deeper in Gracie’s songwriting, some rawness within her acoustic recollections of troubled romance. “I Love You, I’m Sorry” stands out as one of the album’s most beloved tracks, and deservedly so. Within seconds, it conveys a quiet resignation: “I told you the truth, and you didn’t like it.” The “truth” being her choice to leave a relationship. The song gracefully accepts the natural arc of love, how things begin, and how they inevitably end.
And yet, even as she acknowledges this, there’s a lingering guilt. While this emotional register is relatable, I found myself yearning for more texture, more audacity in her storytelling. Gracie’s refrain – “I am wrong again, wrong again!” – is delivered with such aching fervor, it stirs a kind of anxiety. But the lyrics don’t offer enough depth to justify this level of self-conviction. If ending a relationship is simply the natural course of life, I ask myself why must she feel so punished for it. Unless, of course, something has been omitted. To me, this was a missed opportunity to explore the darker corners of regret, the messy truths of human failure.
Vulnerability glows when it’s brave enough to be unlikable. But instead, the album feels safe. And true vulnerability, by its very nature, cannot exist in safety.
Still, “I Love You, I’m Sorry” remains a strong pop ballad, structured around an emotionally resonant bridge – the kind that Taylor Swift has perfected over her long, ever-evolving career. “Close To You” leans further into pure pop, its bubblegum tone reminiscent of the bright energy found in 1989. Taylor took Gracie under her wing, as she often does with rising stars. The admiration Gracie shows toward her is noble and tender, but I wonder if she leans on Taylor too heavily as her guiding star. Because Gracie’s strongest feature is her voice control, I believe that there are other figures who could lead her into deeper, stranger, more transformative places.
A singular musician from New York’s anti-folk scene, Regina Spektor, uses her voice like an instrument that transforms into unexpected shapes and challenges melodic conventions. Anti-folk, with its acoustic core and DIY spirit without industrial interventions subverts the conventions of traditionally inclined singer/songwriters. And Regina, especially through her piano-centered compositions, turned that subvertions into a luminous form of eccentricity. She isn’t merely quirky. Spektor’s intentionally eccentric, but her brilliance is often foreshadowed by those who see only her surface-level whimsy.
Begin to Hope, her most widely celebrated album, dances through transgenerational history and the strange repetition of human error. In “Après Moi,” revolution becomes a frenzied march toward inevitable disintegration and a reminder that history doesn’t just echo, it ricochets. In “Hero,” she challenges tradition, especially religious institutions that rob us of subjectivity. And “Fidelity,” with its musical-theater charm, begins as a fragile ode to fear of falling in love, a fragility extended to the fear of failing in other life realms. Regina’s backstory (immigrating from the USSR to the Bronx at nine years old) adds layers of cultural dissonance that radiates through her music.
Her album Soviet Kitsch explores that in-between space, suspended between the molds of Soviet repression and the savage capitalism of American life – each system, in its own way, totalitarian or cruel. Themes of decay, disillusionment, and class struggle ripple throughout the record, laced with a kind of winking irony communicated through her signature vocal idiosyncrasies characterized by belts, staccatos, and surprising turns. In “Ghost of Corporate Future,” she questions the pursuit of productivity, whispering that “people are just people like you.” It is a softly radical reminder in the age of performative success.
And “Chemo Limo” aches with the fear of dying without the financial stability to face health complications. It is an anxious track grounded by a cast of personally named characters, bringing human fragility to the central character. “Us,” one of her most acclaimed songs, is often misread as a love song. But it’s really about the myth of legacy and how only certain stories are cast in bronze, also how the cycle of idolization repeats endlessly. Maybe contagious, in this context, means indoctrination. Because in the history books, rulers always become a statue.
Other rising singer/songwriters have found a point of departure in Taylor Swift’s craft, then expanded their references to artists who nourish the identities they’re continuously discovering. Olivia Rodrigo received the kind of praise for her debut album, Sour, that some ex-Disney stars only taste after their sixth studio release – still self-proclaiming themselves “new artists.” Sour was a successful experiment, mixing heartfelt ballads with pop-punk-inspired tracks, granting Olivia the freedom to explore before being confined to a limiting identity.
Her flaming vocal delivery in drivers license secured her a place in the mainstream, but it was her carefully crafted ’90s persona that etched her into public memory. In the beginning, Olivia was Taylor’s baby – radiating joy from the public validation and the gifts sent by the iconic star. Strangely, the relationship faded, and the rest is shrouded in public speculation. However, it is known that Olivia Rodrigo was accused of plagiarizing “Cruel Summer” in her single “deja vu,” leading to the accreditation of Taylor Swift, Jack Antonoff, and St. Vincent. Personally, calling it plagiarism feels like a stretch of mental gymnastics.
If Gracie Abrams can use an obviously Swift-esque bridge in “I Love You, I’m Sorry,” why is Olivia the only one branded a plagiarist?
Courtney Love also accused Olivia of copying the Live Through This album cover by Hole. Come on, Courtney – Brian De Palma canonized the bloody prom queen visual in Carrie back in 1976, before you even planned to make music. And there’s more: “good 4 u” was accused of sounding too much like “Misery Business.” At least it wasn’t accused of being too misogynist (we can’t say the same about Paramore’s song). Elvis Costello was the only one who behaved beyond self-serving claims, telling BBC about the similarities between “Pump It Up” and “brutal”: “This is fine by me. It’s how rock & roll works. You take the broken pieces of another thrill and make a brand new toy.”
I nurture a genuine sense of contempt for money-oriented people. Or maybe I’m simply not greedy enough for Hollywood. But what I witnessed was even more aggravating than revenue: established artists harassing and invalidating the intellect of a 19-year-old newcomer, trying to tarnish the well-earned acclaim of her debut. The Doors, The Beatles, and Led Zeppelin were all accused of plagiarism, but their talent and intellect were never questioned in the same way of an ex-Disney star. If I were a widely known musician, I wouldn’t mind a newcomer drawing inspiration or reshaping my songs.
It’s pop culture reinventing pop culture. What a miserable, sad world we live in, where property means more than people, and more than music itself.
This whole situation makes me rethink the beautiful duet between Taylor Swift and Phoebe Bridgers, “Nothing New.” The song is a delicate, emotive ballad about the replacement of female artists in the industry and the looming awareness that someone younger is always on her way. No one should ever be disposable. And though this insecurity is genuine, the newcomer eventually shares the same fate. So targeting her feels pointless. The song does not inspire competition between generations of women. Still, I wonder if Olivia’s meteoric rise and artistic recognition triggered some of the veterans in the plagiarism discourse.
While that remains speculation, Olivia Rodrigo began to carry a cautious presence at major award shows with a closed body language and compromised vocal delivery. This restraint is less noticeable at her own concerts. Among her fans, she moves with more freedom, a comfort reflected in her candid moments, such as those shared on stage with Chappell Roan. If Taylor Swift was once the sole name Olivia mentioned as an inspiration, that light has dimmed and gradually been replaced by references like The White Stripes, Fiona Apple, and Alanis Morissette.
Soon, Olivia Rodrigo dove deeper into ’90s and early 2000s influences. Her NPR Tiny Desk performance (featuring a girl band in vintage clothes with peeled nail polish) felt like a Riot Grrrl revival with a pop twist: still quirky, but palatable. That’s the heart of her sophomore album, GUTS. Tracks like “all-american bitch” and “ballad of a homeschooled girl” challenge the impossible expectations placed on women. The former mocks the image of the flawless prom queen, while the latter rejects the social demand entirely. The album balances softness and rebellion.
In “teenage dream,” the nausea of devastation at too young an age is delicately expressed, until that delicacy shatters into a denser sound of despair. The heavenly harmonization in “lacy” paints a portrait of someone so divine she’s untouchable, yet you crave her comfort. The big ballad and lead single, “vampire,” is often interpreted as a love disillusionment. But the imagery of a bloodsucker and “a castle built off people you pretend to care about” feels far more like a poke at the industry that tried to sabotage Olivia’s rise. The music video (centered on a Grammy stage collapsing to injure her) makes the metaphor clear.
Olivia Rodrigo reaches beyond romantic heartbreak, exploring the unease and angst provoked by a treacherous, ambiguous world – especially for young women like her. This richer thematic palette makes Alanis Morissette a more fitting mentor. Jagged Little Pill might not be on the playlist of those obsessed with the grittier sounds of Sonic Youth or Bikini Kill and that’s a mistake I once made and regret. The album sits in that sweet spot between indie freedom and mainstream appeal, much like the future Olivia Rodrigo seems to be crafting. It’s sonically marked by Alanis’ soul-stirring vocals and a prominent harmonica, which suggests a bright horizon contrasting with a deep, anchoring bass.
Morissette urges listeners to make mistakes and carry on in spite of disillusionment. “Hand in My Pocket” glorifies life’s contradictions with a wink, thanks to the shifting chorus lines (“doing the peace sign,” “calling a taxi cab,” “holding a cigarette”). “You Learn” celebrates the freedom that comes from stumbling through life. Alanis stitches her lyrics together in a chewy, unique flow – sometimes dragging syllables, sometimes rushing them.
Although the album carries an optimistic spirit, Alanis doesn’t shy away from darkness. In “Forgiven,” she questions the hypocrisy of religious institutions that claim to welcome all but exclude many. Perfect stings with its portrayal of crushing parental expectations. Her whispered delivery on certain lines captures the paralysis of trying (and failing) to be the perfect child. Anger erupts in “You Oughta Know,” with Flea’s iconic bassline offering a taut sense of anticipation. Sexual innuendos and feverish pacing elevate the fury into legend. And “Ironic,” perhaps her most iconic song, ties everything together: life is strange, unpredictable, and unapologetically ironic.
Jagged Little Pill remains a quintessential confessional album, beloved by both the masses and the alt-press. What sets it apart is its blend of raw perseverance and a rare optimism. It is surely bright but not naive. It acknowledges the world’s cruelty without succumbing to cynicism. It’s not grunge, but it’s not conformist either. Alanis herself is richly layered: a working-class child who moved across Germany, Canada, and the U.S.; a spiritual seeker through yoga; an activist who speaks out on statutory rape, having been exploited by adults as a teenager. Alanis Morissette, Fiona Apple, and Regina Spektor have the lived experience to breathe life into the diaristic genre.
It shouldn’t be trendy to romanticize the suffering artist and those brilliant women defy that shallow categorization. Having layers is not inherently correlated with trauma, and a raw backstory. Only practice, refinement, and deliberate expression makes an artist on its own. It is arguable, however, that the kind of specific lyricism previously mentioned can only be achieved through a surgical observation of the environment, a gaze that often begins with the intricacies of the self.
While The Secret of Us struggles with specificity, Gracie Abrams is often compared to a strikingly specific artist: Phoebe Bridgers. Unfortunately, this comparison tends to be reduced to their shared romantic history with the same actor. While both women are celebrated for their diaristic approach to songwriting, the way they navigate confessional writing couldn’t be more different. Phoebe’s second album, Punisher, reveals a meticulous attention to detail shaped by empathetic tendencies – sometimes leaning toward self-sacrifice, and at other times drawing careful boundaries.
She famously coined the term “punisher” for a certain type of fan, and in the album’s title track, she places herself as a punisher of Elliott Smith. Within an LA imagined as belonging to the Either/Or composer, she wanders past his house, weaving theories and hints (with elegant subtlety) at his known struggles with alcohol, only to highlight the tenderness he offered in spite of his haunted self. Phoebe moves, in this song, between punisher and punished – a fan who also can’t be seen in plain sight because of her own punishers.
Perhaps a “copycat killer with a chemical cut” is her eerie superpower: she is a copy of the punishers toward Smith, but knows the side effects intimately, having been punished herself. The song drifts like a lullaby, her voice watery and celestial, ascending in the lines: “What if I told you I feel like I know you, but we never met?” Though the album centers around empathy, this track also questions the dangers of exaggerated empathy (something that isn’t exactly safe). A punisher believes they are idolizing someone, but true empathy requires more.
“Savior Complex” demystifies the tenderness behind self-sacrifice. Perhaps there is a mutual comfort in sharing nightmares, but in this dynamic, one is a vampire and the other has an impossible mission to heal. The track’s haunting melody is often balanced by a brighter violin, creating a contrast of light and shadow that mirrors the emptiness of this unachievable mission. “Graceland Too,” on the other hand, glows with bucolic gentleness. It captures the deeply rewarding aspect of caretaking: the sacred hope of believing in someone who truly wants to change and does. The character is no longer a danger to herself or others (referencing the opening lines of the song).
Conversely, “Moon Song” is an ode to the weary insistence on loving someone too fractured to be healed. There’s a gravitational push and pull in this kind of relationship: one day, I carry you home; the next, I find solace in a dream where you smile on my birthday. The emotional labor culminates in a peak of distress, marked by a dramatic shift in the lines: “You are sick, and you’re married, and you might be dying.”
But Phoebe’s most overt sense of frustration emerges in “Kyoto” and in a surprisingly healthy way. It marks a clear demand for boundaries and self-preservation, focusing on her strained relationship with her father. Despite its upbeat sound the feeling of freedom might be fleeting. The searing declarations, “I don’t forgive you” and “I’m gonna kill you,” are immediately tempered by her admission: “I’m a liar.” This is Phoebe’s sophisticated approach to emotional ambivalence or the idea that even within painful relationships, affection can linger. Phoebe knows that at some point she will forgive. Anger can blaze, yet the heart still wanders home.
The epic closing track, “I Know The End,” expands beyond interpersonal sorrow into an apocalyptic meditation on the crumbling world that holds all our complex relationships. The song begins in disorientation and weariness, then gradually turns outward through an unraveling landscape: “A slaughterhouse, an outlet mall / Slot machines, fear of God.” The pacing builds, trumpets rise in a Neutral Milk Hotel-like crescendo, and the final scream is delivered with such gravity that it lands in pure, echoing nothingness.
There is a delicate and aching harmony among the tracks of Punisher, each one radiating the emotional aftermath and self-reflection born from loving too deeply. And yet, Phoebe Bridgers’ artistry finds humor in melancholy with a dry, bittersweet irony that lets us laugh at the most inconvenient moments. It’s a touch of The Smiths and the way Morrissey can turn pain into poetry that makes us chuckle.
Bridgers’ sense of humor is already present in her debut, Stranger in the Alps, where casual encounters and mundane routines are rendered with wry clarity: “I asked you, ‘How is playing drums?’ / You said, ‘It’s too much shit to carry.’” In “Motion Sickness,” her sharp wit cuts clean: “You gave me fifteen hundred to see your hypnotherapist / I only went one time, you let it slide.” These aren’t just punchlines – they’re declarations of unapologetic selfhood, no matter who’s watching.
She is unafraid to examine the paradox of surrender, like in “Killer”: “I am sick of the chase, but I am hungry for blood.” One of her most powerful stances comes in the boygenius track, “Letter To An Old Poet.” I would like to call it a lyrical manifesto of dignity: “You make me feel like an equal / But I’m better than you / And you should know that by now.” Ouch. And also yes.
Taylor Swift praised Phoebe’s sense of humor in her interview at SNL, yet a strange narrative has emerged online: “How Taylor Swift Paved the Way for Phoebe Bridgers.” While Taylor’s influence is undeniable, and Phoebe has been vocal about that, it feels somewhat dismissive to credit her with shaping Phoebe’s artistry. Phoebe has paved her own path, shaped by the sounds and voices of those who came before her – Elliott Smith, Neutral Milk Hotel, Leonard Cohen, and her talented collaborators in boygenius and Better Oblivion Community Center. To attribute her brilliance to Taylor is to ignore the unique influence of these artists on her work.
Perhaps Taylor did play a pivotal role in Gracie Abrams’ development as an artist, and that’s why Punisher feels like such a stark departure from The Secret of Us. On the surface, both Phoebe and Gracie might appear similar: two white women with an acoustic sound and a knack for diaristic lyrics. But that’s where the comparison ends. Their artistry is not a simple overlap. There’s a distinct, textured difference.
I won’t deny that Taylor Swift has inspired a generation of younger female musicians, but this acknowledgment may have inadvertently diluted the impact of her most recent album. While The Tortured Poets Department can’t mask her efforts to reach a deeper, more profound meaning, Taylor’s debut album is wild and raw – an unhinged, hysterically unfiltered creation, as only an honest teenage girl can produce. The girl behind “Picture to Burn” won’t leave the room without settling the score. The straightforward vocabulary and campy, serial dater revenge are the blueprint of the Taylor Swift we’d later see in “Blank Space.”
Surprisingly, the public only began to recognize her kitschy obsession with revenge after “Bad Blood,” and even more so in the albums that followed. The term “white victimism” is still often associated with Taylor, especially post-Reputation. Unfortunately, she seemed to adapt to the unfounded judgment, softening the raw edge that once defined her. Of course, she didn’t abandon the tales of retribution entirely. “Vigilante Shit” from Midnights is proof of that, and I find myself drawn to the track’s moody, noir-inspired tone. There’s something deeply seductive about the way Taylor blends revenge with allure, almost like a femme fatale in a film noir. In many ways, it feels like an adaptation of Reputation by Lorde. Yet Taylor’s style of confrontation is more unrefined and even frenzied.
Tracks like “Better Than Revenge” and “Mean” from her third studio album, Speak Now, are uncontrollably maniac. They challenge the notion that Taylor Swift lacks an edge, despite what her detractors claim. Whether they like it or not, Taylor has always had an unapologetic sharpness. However, at this stage in her career, I believe it’s more important for Taylor to be a palatable adult than to be an unfiltered teen. It’s true her songwriting has grown more nuanced over time, and her lyrics as a woman no longer reflect the crude, unrefined lines of a teenager.
Her collaboration with the Haim sisters on “no body, no crime” from Evermore is a perfect example of this maturity. The way she vividly paints the scene (describing the town, the characters, and their recurrent dinners) is a testament to her evolving craft. While the plot (a cheater’s demise) may seem extreme, it’s this unhinged spirit of Taylor’s that makes her writing so magnetic.
Folklore and Evermore were the albums that truly cemented Taylor as a foundational artist for female songwriters. These records marked a shift, with Aaron Dessner of The National stepping in as a key producer. I’m unashamed to call Trouble Will Find Me a masterpiece of distant sorrow – sonically, it’s more subdued than Radiohead but less apathetic than The War on Drugs. Taylor’s collaborations with Bon Iver on two ballads further solidified her appeal to a more mature audience.
This connection to indie music (along with collaborations with artists like Haim, Florence Welch, and Phoebe Bridgers) provided the type of validation Taylor hadn’t experienced earlier in her career, despite being a prolific songwriter from the start. In an interview with Paul McCartney for Musicians on Musicians in Rolling Stone Magazine, Taylor revealed that Folklore was the first album where she created characters beyond herself. It’s in this shift that we see Taylor’s sharp observational skills, the slow-burning tone of acoustic instruments, and the breathy vocals that have come to define confessional music – though it’s more about telling stories than personal confession now.
With this recipe for intellectual validation combined with commercial success, Taylor continued to explore (and exploit) the indie aesthetic, especially in The Tortured Poets Department. Yet, the album faced criticism for echoing themes already explored in Lana Del Rey’s songwriting, as well as the flat and methodically mellow production of Jack Antonoff. Still, Taylor continued to dominate the charts with endless remixes, though artists like Charli XCX and Chappel Roan left a more symbolic mark on pop culture in 2024. The album revealed a staged authenticity from an artist who never needed the approval of Pitchfork or the traits of indie music to be considered authentic.
This dilemma extends far beyond The Tortured Poets Department, revealing the persistent underestimation of pop music and the fetishization of indie artists. The devaluation of pop is deeply disheartening not only due to the pretentious logic behind dismissing hits beloved by the masses, but especially because of the disregard for the cultural impact pop divas have had within the queer community. Meanwhile, the fetishization of independent music is equally troubling. Reverence for a group is hollow when its artists are left in obscurity, often without financial security or institutional support.
The otherworldly emotional depth now coveted by major producers has long been the heartbeat of musicians who’ve never touched the top of the charts. Angel Olsen’s Strange Cacti remains tucked in the shadows, even among her fans. Each song feels like a feminine nightmare, adorned with distant echoes of her signature folky vibrato, at times recalling the melodic phrasing of Portuguese guitar. Julia Jacklin’s Crushing is a study in tender introspection, marked by circular melodies, a heartbreaking patience, and deliberate pacing, especially in “Don’t Know How to Keep Loving You.”
It feels unsettling to imagine producers like Jack Antonoff, Benny Blanco, or Finneas consuming these records merely as moodboards for projects aimed at mass appeal. Thankfully, they are also working alongside aesthetically mature artists (like Lana Del Rey and Billie Eilish) who are far less likely to co-opt underground mannerisms without reverence or nuance.
While the expected trajectory for an artist is to rise from niche indie acclaim to mainstream success, Lana Del Rey continues to defy that arc. Her deeply diaristic voice in her latest projects often unsettles mainstream media, prompting an inverse motion: not a breakthrough into pop’s upper echelons, but a gradual retreat into a self-made sanctum. Though she’s far too sacred now to be truly underground, her recent albums suggest a certain apathy toward the kind of fame that distorts or restrains her truest self. Born to Die reshaped the fantasies and emotional landscapes of an entire generation of girls.
In Lana’s world, a decadent yet alluring version of Los Angeles took form – a dreamlike escape for nostalgic hearts. Her Lynchian vision blended together the ghosts of Hollywood’s icons (James Dean, Priscilla Presley, Marilyn Monroe, Jim Morrison) with a darker Americana: abandoned gas stations, Hells Angels, the Kennedy assassination, religious mysticism, and seedy motels. For Lana, “Heaven is a place on Earth” because beauty, in her universe, must exist alongside the mundane, the decayed, the dangerous. This persona took on new shadows in Ultraviolence, where obscurity overtook the dazzling glamour of Born to Die.
Here, her magnetism lived in the cold allure of darkness in songs like “Cruel World,” “Fucked My Way Up to the Top,” and the operatic mirage of “Shades of Cool.” But her next two albums bathed in sunlight. Honeymoon is a melting sun (leaving behind a sultry, golden sweat on the skin) while Lust for Life embraces flower-power love and emotional emancipation, inviting Stevie Nicks and Sean Ono Lennon into her cosmos.
Many remember Lana as the human form of the Hollywood Sign bathed in red Marlboro, Pamela Des Barres’ sordid affairs, and sadly the socialite meetings of the DAR (Daughters of the American Revolution), but Elizabeth Grant has worn Shein in red carpets, dated anonymous men, and took shifts at an Alabama Waffle House. If Lana Del Rey is dazzling, Elizabeth Grant couldn’t be more unpretentious. Starting with Norman Fucking Rockwell!, the audience began to distinguish the persona from the artist. Of course, the reminiscence of an idyllic Los Angeles will always be part of her poetic landscape, but in this album it arrives through existential contemplation and sentimental autonomy.
The nearly ten-minute track “Venice Bitch” is exquisitely constructed. It feels like an Angeleno crusade made for Lana herself (not for the radio). It moves like an endless freeway journey with no exits, its hazy imagery painting the seductive recollection of a life lived in an “American-made” romantic duo that flickers in and out of memory. A semi shoegaze-like guitar solo carries a charming fogginess. These memories converge in a collapse so signature to Lana: “And as the summer fades away / Nothing gold can stay.” Over the last few years, the magnetic Californian paradise in Lana’s songwriting has grown more apocalyptic.
In the storytelling of “The Greatest,” she fuses golden age rock ’n’ roll nostalgia with the LA fires burning through memories of her beloved city. There is something regal about the song in the way the chorus transcends homesickness into a monumental warning. Her reverence for the past now carries a clear-eyed guard for the future. In this album, Lana also begins to unravel the patronizing view the public built of her as a submissive partner. The title track is written by a lover very different from the danger-seeking, incurably romantic figure of Born to Die. There’s even a slightly sadistic perception of men that feels almost playful: “Self-loathing poet, resident Laurel Canyon know-it-all.”
In Blue Banisters and Did You Know That There’s a Tunnel Under Ocean Blvd, Lana’s songwriting turns inward, reflecting on desire and self-perception. “Black Bathing Suit” dismantles the unattainable projections once placed upon her muse-like presence – her body is her temple, and it’s no one else’s business. That same symbolism is echoed in “Arcadia,” where Los Angeles becomes a metaphor for her body: both shelter and receive her. Independence and assertive liberty are the emotional core of Blue Banisters. In “Violet for Roses,” Lana draws a direct line between personal agency and the girls in summer dresses. Here, choice becomes a shared experience among women; the violets traded for roses no longer affect her or the girls she observes moving freely.
In “Dealer,” despair morphs into a resolute autonomy. The energy and belonging may be taken by force, but the decision to leave and not be found is ultimately hers. The title track “Blue Banisters” invokes a man of many promises: he’d fix her weathervane, give her children, and paint the banisters blue. But when he doesn’t show up, it’s Nikki Lane, Jenny, and Chucky (her circle of women) who paint them instead. And not in sad blue, but in fruitful green. The absence of men is filled, not mourned, by the care of women around her.
If a man fears her legacy, her sisters do not. The only threat beyond their reach is the recurring anxiety of the Santa Clarita fires, another symbol of her growing unease with California’s changing climate.
Did You Know That There’s a Tunnel Under Ocean Blvd opens with “The Grants,” named after her family, setting the tone for a deeply personal album. The transmission of generational memory is tenderly captured in the line: “I’m gonna take mine of you with me.” The song feels like it’s housed inside a church, signaling the spiritual weight Lana attaches to memory here. On the self-titled track, the theme becomes even clearer: “Don’t forget me.” The plaintive question “When’s it gonna be my turn?” speaks to her longing for immortality not just as a pop icon, but as a human monument of emotion and memory. She nods to Harry Nilsson, whose 1970s songwriting legacy deserves a better place in collective memory.
The boldest track on the album, “A&W,” begins in quiet reminiscence: “I haven’t done a cartwheel since I was nine / I haven’t seen my mother in a long, long time.” But as Lana explores the links between memory and truth, the narrative shifts: “I say I live in Rosemead / Really, I’m at the Ramada / It doesn’t really matter.” Here, she reveals that existential truth isn’t always found in factual precision. In “A&W,” Lana reclaims the autonomy to control her image. She is America’s whore, because no other artist in current pop has constructed a universe so deliberately built around Americana. And yet, her creation is not public property. She is not in the public domain. The song’s melancholic recollection slowly spirals into an eerie, seductive suspension. This tonal shift underscores Lana’s extraordinary ability to navigate genres while revisiting the provocative imagery of Born to Die classics like “Off to the Races.”
In Chemtrails Over the Country Club, Lana’s mythological self is reimagined in a more grounded form. The American muse now does laundry and washes her hair. She once worked as a waitress, and she is still wild at heart, as the epic “Ride” monologue foretold. But now she’s found a third space, where Del Rey and Grant coexist, confessing and merging into a multi-layered self. Confessional writing might be best understood as inviting every version of yourself (past, possible, and imagined) into one room, then choosing a single voice to speak for them all. That chosen voice doesn’t need to be strictly factual to be truthful.
The notion of a “genuinely authentic” artist is often a myth, because songwriting itself is a negotiation of characters.
True relatability is often found not in polished narratives involving other celebrities and unattainable luxury, but in those moments when artists show up in ordinary spaces or move against their PR-trained instincts. The concept of being “relatable” actually stands in conflict with the industry’s highest aspiration: to become an entity. The real challenge lies in balancing that quintessential persona with everyday existence—something Lana Del Rey does with ease, even as she seems to have stopped caring about embodying an “entity” at all.
This dynamic often plays out with underground artists who either isolate themselves or leave us too soon. Indie musicians become entities by accident, never by design. Fiona Apple is a bigger entity than she intended to be, but more secluded than the public expected. The more visceral the songwriting, the harder it is for the artist to survive in a pedestal-shaped role.
After Phoebe Bridgers broke into the mainstream (opening for Taylor Swift, attending the Met Gala, engaging in public relationships) she withdrew, focusing almost entirely on her label, Saddest Factory Records. It makes sense. Neither Phoebe nor Fiona began writing music to fuel endless discourse about their personal lives or attend neoliberal charity events. So when mainstream artists mimic the deeply introspective nature of indie songwriting, only to fuel scandal around their own curated mythologies, they enter a dangerous pact with the media—one that invites their own surveillance.
It’s a safer bet for someone like Taylor Swift, who has the benefit of a strong support system and strategic control over her image. She recovered from the 2016 debacle through meticulous self-reinvention, though even she needed time away. But this same tactic can be disastrous for more vulnerable artists—those facing addiction or grappling with mental health. As confessional writing becomes mistaken for tabloid bait, the next wave of indie artists may evolve a new form until, inevitably, that too is co-opted by the mainstream and transformed into something convenient to everything but music.
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Isabela Costa is a filmmaker, photographer, and cultural critic born in Rio de Janeiro. Her work conjures poetic, sensory universes shaped by the anxieties and longings of younger generations. Working across 16mm and digital formats, she holds an MFA in Film/Video from CalArts. Costa’s films have screened at festivals including Lausanne Underground Film & Music Festival, Brooklyn Film Festival, and Atlanta Film Festival. Her photographic and fashion storytelling features artists such as Sloppy Jane’s Haley Dahl, Luna Li, Daphne Blunt, and Isabella Lalonde. Connect with her on Instagram: @ghost.of.isabela
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© The Friendship Book of Anne Wagner (1795-1834)
© The Friendship Book of Anne Wagner (1795-1834)Notes on the Confessional
