There are certain expectations one has when Browse the sensible shoe department at a reputable retailer. One expects quiet carpeting, helpful staff, and the gentle, unobtrusive sound ofinoffensive background music. Perhaps a little Michael Bublé, if they’re feeling adventurous.
You can imagine my shock, then, when my search for a practical yet stylish loafer was interrupted by the sound of a young woman singing on the store’s sound system. She had a pleasant enough voice, I suppose, but the words she was singing caused me to nearly drop a very sensible wedge heel. In a disturbingly cheerful tone, she was detailing a fantasy about murdering her ex-boyfriend and his new girlfriend, all because her heart was broken.
“I might kill my ex,” the voice cooed, “not the best idea.”
Not the best idea? My dear lady, that is a profound understatement. It is a terrible idea. It is a felony. I looked around, expecting to see similar looks of alarm on the faces of my fellow shoppers. Instead, a young sales associate was humming along. Humming along to a murder confession set to a catchy beat. It was at that moment I knew I had stumbled upon a cultural phenomenon that required my immediate and unwavering attention. That song, I later learned, was called “Kill Bill,” and it was the crown jewel of SZA’s chart-topping, critically acclaimed album, SOS. Well, I have listened to the entire 23-track ordeal, and I am here to tell you that the album is aptly named. It is, without a doubt, a distress signal.
A General Grievance: The Lack of Musical Cohesion
Before I even address the scandalous lyrical content, we must first discuss the chaotic structure of this album. Listening to SOS from start to finish is like channel-surfing during a thunderstorm. One moment, it’s a smooth, mellow R&B song. The next, it’s a jarring, guitar-driven pop-punk tirade that sounds like it was recorded in a teenager’s garage. Then it shifts to a mournful ballad, then to something approaching rock, then back again.
What genre is SZA’s SOS? That is a question many people are asking, and the answer, it seems, is “all of them.” The creators and fans of this album call this “genre-bending” and “versatile.” I call it what it is: a mess. It’s musically indecisive. It’s as if the young woman couldn’t settle on a single sound or mood, so she simply threw every idea she had at the wall to see what would stick. The result is a jarring, overlong, and deeply unfocused collection of tracks that gives the listener whiplash. A proper album should have a point of view, a sonic throughline. This album has about seventeen of them, all competing for attention.
A Formal Complaint Regarding Lyrical Indecency
Now, let us move on to the primary offense: the lyrics. I was raised in an era where singers—especially female singers—maintained a certain level of decorum. They wrote about love and heartbreak with poetry, metaphor, and a sense of quiet dignity. This album has none of that. It is a 68-minute exercise in over-sharing, with lyrics that range from the deeply unsettling to the frankly inappropriate.
Exhibit A: “Kill Bill” We must start here, as it is the most egregious example. I understand the concept of hyperbole. I know what artistic license is. But there is a line, and cheerfully singing about a double homicide crosses it, circles it, and then sets it on fire. The song is presented as a relatable anthem of heartbreak. What part of this is relatable? The uncontrollable jealousy? The homicidal ideation? This isn’t a heartbroken woman; it’s a villain from a television crime drama. Has anyone checked on the ex-boyfriend? Is he safe? The casual way this song was embraced by the public is a deeply worrying sign of our society’s moral decay.
Exhibit B: The Unladylike Language and Themes Beyond the homicidal fantasies, the album is littered with the kind of explicit language and TMI (Too Much Information) content that would make a sailor blush. There is a constant, exhausting vacillation between aggressive, boastful proclamations and cripplingly insecure confessions. One moment she is bragging about her romantic prowess in a most unseemly manner, the next she is whining about being ignored by a man. The emotional landscape of this album is not complex; it’s just unstable. What ever happened to maintaining a little mystery? A little self-respect? This isn’t vulnerability; it’s a public therapy session without the benefit of a licensed professional.
An Analysis of the So-Called “Hit Songs”
Even the album’s most celebrated tracks are, upon closer inspection, deeply flawed.
Take “Snooze,” for instance. It’s a slow, romantic-sounding song that many consider a highlight. But if you listen to the lyrics, it’s a ballad about a codependent relationship of alarming intensity. She sings that being away from this man is “a snooze,” implying her life has no meaning or interest without him. My dear, that is not romantic; that is a cry for help. You need a hobby. You need a book club. You need an identity outside of your romantic partner. This isn’t a love song; it’s an ode to losing oneself entirely.
Then there’s “Good Days,” a song that, on the surface, sounds dreamy and optimistic. It has a pleasant, sunny disposition. But the lyrics are about a desperate attempt to talk oneself out of inner turmoil and “silly arguments” in her head. It’s not a song about actually having a good day; it’s a song about the immense effort required to not have a bad one. It’s profoundly sad, dressed up in a deceptively cheerful package.
What Happened to Real Soul Music?
Listening to SOS made me yearn for the R&B and soul singers of my youth. When Aretha Franklin demanded “R.E.S.P.E.C.T.,” it was a powerful, dignified anthem for a generation. When Gladys Knight sang about leaving on a “Midnight Train to Georgia,” you felt the weight of her decision, the quiet strength in her heartbreak. There was elegance, power, and restraint.
This album, by contrast, feels like it has none of that. It replaces soulful power with shouted insecurities and poetic subtlety with shocking, explicit confessions. The artistry of the past was in conveying deep emotion through masterful songwriting and vocal control. The “artistry” here seems to be in just how raw and unfiltered one can be. It’s a race to the bottom of lyrical decorum.
The Final Verdict: An SOS Indeed
Ultimately, the album’s title is the most accurate thing about it. It truly is an SOS. It’s a distress signal from a talented but deeply troubled young artist. It’s a chaotic, indulgent, and emotionally exhausting cry for help that masquerades as a groundbreaking musical statement.
My final verdict is this: while I can acknowledge the young lady has a unique voice, the vessel for that voice is a hot mess. The album is too long, too unfocused, and far too concerned with shocking the listener. I am sending out my own SOS to the music industry: please, let’s bring back a little class, a little subtlety, and a lot less talk about killing our exes. My nerves, and the institution of popular music, simply cannot take much more.
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