There are certain sounds that one expects to disrupt a peaceful afternoon. A neighbor’s lawnmower, perhaps. The distant wail of an ambulance. The over-enthusiastic bark of a nearby beagle. I am prepared for these minor disturbances. What I was not prepared for was the sonic assault that recently emanated from my granddaughter’s bedroom, an unholy racket that rattled my bone china and curdled the milk in my tea.
It began with a guitar riff so distorted and aggressive it sounded like it was being played with a power tool. This was immediately followed by what I can only describe as a young lady shouting. Not singing, mind you. Shouting. It was a tirade of teenage grievances set to a drumbeat that can best be compared to someone falling down a flight of stairs with a collection of pots and pans.
“What on earth is that noise?” I called out, my voice tight with disapproval.
“It’s GUTS!” my granddaughter shouted back with reverence. “The new Olivia Rodrigo album! Isn’t it amazing?”
Amazing was not the word I would have chosen. After being subjected to the entire album on a torturous car ride to the garden center, I have emerged, dazed but resolute, with a full report. Someone needs to provide a mature, sensible, and thoroughly unimpressed perspective on this so-called musical masterpiece, and it appears that task has fallen to me. So consider this my formal review. I’ve listened to GUTS, and frankly, my primary grievance is with the sheer volume of it all.
My First Complaint: The Noise Level is Unacceptable
Before we even touch upon the lyrical content—and believe me, we will get to that melodrama—we must first address the sound. What has happened to the concept of melody? Of dynamics? Of a song that builds and breathes, with quiet moments and loud moments? This album seems to have been produced with one single philosophy: everything must be at maximum volume, all the time.
The quieter songs, the so-called ballads, offer a brief respite before they, too, inevitably crescendo into a caterwaul of crashing cymbals and shrieking vocals. Listening to GUTS from start to finish is not a pleasant musical journey. It is an endurance test. It is the auditory equivalent of being stuck in a room with a malfunctioning smoke alarm while someone repeatedly slams a car door outside.
The “rock” elements everyone seems so proud of sound less like the clever guitar work of a bygone era and more like a tantrum happening in a music store. There is no nuance, no subtlety. It is all raw, frayed nerve endings presented as art. Frankly, if I want to experience that level of chaotic noise, I can simply visit a middle school cafeteria during lunchtime. I do not need to pay for the privilege on a streaming service.
A Lyrical Investigation: A Deep Dive into Over-Sharing
Once my ears adjusted to the initial sonic shock, I attempted to focus on the lyrics. The album’s title, GUTS, is apparently meant to signify honesty and bravery in songwriting. From what I can gather, however, it mostly seems to signify a complete and utter lack of a private, internal monologue. Every fleeting thought, every minor social embarrassment, every romantic slight is broadcast with the subtlety of a foghorn.
Exhibit A: “vampire” This was the first single I was made aware of, a song about a “fame-sucker” who used her for her status. A “bloodsucker.” For a moment, I thought it was a clever song about an actual vampire, which would have at least been interesting. But no. It is, of course, about a boy. A boy who, as the song painstakingly details, dated her for a mere six months.
Six months! My dear young lady, I have jars of jam in my pantry with a longer shelf life than that relationship. To write a three-and-a-half-minute power ballad of such operatic drama over a dalliance that lasted half a year is, frankly, absurd. It’s a testament to the modern teenager’s flair for the dramatic, and a worrying sign of what they consider to be a major life event.
Exhibit B: “ballad of a homeschooled girl” In this particular track, Miss Rodrigo laments her social awkwardness. She sings of tripping over her own feet, telling jokes that don’t land, and feeling like a “social suicide.” My diagnosis? She lacks basic social graces and seems to blame everyone but herself.
Instead of seeing her awkwardness as a personal failing to be worked on—perhaps by reading a book, practicing conversation, or simply watching where she puts her feet—she presents it as some kind of tragic, universal condition. “I hate all my friends,” she declares. Well, dear, after listening to you complain about them in a hit song, I can assure you the feeling is probably mutual.
Exhibit C: “pretty isn’t pretty” Here we have the obligatory song about the pressures of modern beauty standards. She can’t look in the mirror, she bought makeup she doesn’t need, and feels she’ll never be good enough. While the sentiment is understandable, the execution is pure navel-gazing. Women of my generation had real problems to contend with. We didn’t have time to write a song because we felt a bit insecure after scrolling through a telephone screen. We had to get on with it. This constant lyrical self-analysis feels less like a profound statement and more like a diary entry that should have remained private.
A Lack of True Songwriting Craft
The central issue with GUTS is that it mistakes raw confession for crafted songwriting. Where is the poetry? Where is the metaphor that isn’t glaringly obvious? I think of the great songwriters of my youth. Carole King could write about heartbreak in “It’s Too Late” with a world-weary grace that made it universal. Joni Mitchell could paint a picture with words in “A Case of You” that was both deeply personal and artistically brilliant. They transformed their pain into poetry.
This album simply documents pain, often in the most literal terms imaginable. In “get him back!”, she vacillates between wanting to kiss a boy and wanting to key his car. This isn’t presented with any sense of irony or cleverness; it’s just a statement of conflicting, juvenile impulses. It doesn’t tell me a story; it tells me this young woman needs to make up her mind and perhaps enroll in an anger management class.
The Final Verdict: All Guts, No Real Glory
After careful consideration and a full bottle of aspirin, my verdict is in. Is the album energetic? Yes, in the way a toddler who has eaten too much sugar is energetic. Is it honest? Yes, in the way a poorly written diary is honest. But is it good music? Is it a work of lasting artistic merit? Absolutely not.
It is an album of pure id—a loud, repetitive, and lyrically immature collection of grievances. It is all guts, no glory. It’s a musical tantrum that mistakes volume for passion and over-sharing for bravery.
My final recommendation is that someone ought to buy this young lady a nice cup of chamomile tea and a journal—a paper one, with a lock on it. As for the album, I’ll be filing a formal complaint with the local noise department. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to put on some Frank Sinatra to remind myself what a true vocalist sounds like. The palate must be cleansed.
