There’s a particular shade of blue eyeshadow that Katy Perry favors. A vibrant, almost aggressive turquoise, it tends to make an appearance when things get real. Like the time she wore it, smeared and tear-stained, in her 2010 documentary, Part of Me, offering a raw glimpse behind the glitter cannons and whipped cream bras.
That rawness, that willingness to let the mascara run a little, is what makes Perry such a fascinating figure in the pop landscape. She’s not afraid to let the seams show, to let the carefully constructed persona crack and reveal the woman beneath. Her latest album, however, feels different. It's as if the blue eyeshadow has been traded for a perfectly applied Instagram filter. The edges are blurred, the colors a touch too saturated.
Don’t get me wrong, the album is catchy. Perry’s knack for a hook remains as sharp as ever. But it lacks the emotional depth of her earlier work. The kind of depth that made you feel like you were right there with her, shotgunning a can of whipped cream after a bad breakup or belting out "Firework" with a newfound sense of self-belief.
Perhaps it's unfair to expect an artist to perpetually mine their personal life for material. We demand vulnerability, then balk at the scars it leaves behind. I think back to a conversation I had years ago with a young designer, his eyes red-rimmed from the pressure of his debut collection. “They want your soul,” he’d said, voice cracking, “but they don’t want to see the mess it makes.”
And maybe that’s what Perry is grappling with on this album. The desire to protect herself, to maintain a safe distance between the personal and the public. The result is an album that feels polished, even a little sterile. The Auto-Tune, once used sparingly to enhance, now feels like a barrier, smoothing away the imperfections that make her voice, and her persona, so compelling.
There are moments, fleeting but powerful, where the real Katy Perry peeks through. A flicker of vulnerability in the lyrics, a crack in her voice during a particularly poignant melody. It’s in those moments that you remember the woman who sang about teenage dreams and California Gurls with equal parts irony and earnestness. The woman who wasn't afraid to be both a firework and a hot mess.
One can only hope that on her next outing, Perry will ditch the filter and embrace the messiness. That she’ll let the blue eyeshadow run a little, and remind us that even under the gloss and the glitter, there's a real heart beating.
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