‘Virgin’ by Lorde is the singer’s sonic reckoning with identity, ego death and acceptance

One of the album’s main thematic tentpoles is Lorde’s overdue reckoning with her sexuality and gender identity. While the singer hasn’t officially come out as queer, she’s been candid about her evolving relationship with her own body. She references this expected turmoil in Hammer and Man of the Year. In Shapeshifter, with its fairytale references and fast-paced beat, the singer reflects on the many roles she’s played throughout her life—putting on nonexistent airs, often for the sake of a partner, and masking discomfort in exchange for affection. A similar confession unfolds in Broken Glass, where she references an eating disorder and an internalised distaste for her own body, pleading with the girl in the mirror to break free from a cycle of self-destruction.

The album cycles through a grocery list of emotional opposites—longing and lashing out, hunger and abstinence, self-destruction and preservation—all distilled into a brisk 35-minute runtime. David closes the record in a fade to black, ending on the question: “Am I ever gonna love again?”

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Announcing the intention behind this project, especially in the early promotional period may have not worked in her favour. But even without that context, the music stands on its own. The songs are more literal than expected, and sometimes even to its detriment. Lyrically, this may not be her sharpest work, but its rawness offers a vulnerability that feels unfiltered and direct. 

Sonically, Virgin leans into repetition. Beats thrum and loop in varying iterations, as if she’s rocking back and forth in a fetal position, trying to soothe herself. There’s no attempt to disguise the pain with even more metaphor than it’s worth. Though the album does play like an open wound, it seems as if it’s this polished quality that keeps her rooted in the pop charts, even as she attempts to tiptoe toward something more experimental.

Lorde’s remedy for grappling with heartbreak is more cough syrup than chicken soup, and listening to Virgin for the first time is probably something you need to experience in a safe and secure space, preferably wrapped in blankets. It feels like abstaining from alcohol at someone’s birthday party because you’ve been prescribed antibiotics for a waning fever; dry-swallowing a bitter pill; a stuffy headache after crying for hours; sobering up from a tantric high. It’s that awkward moment of running into a former flame at a mutual friend’s get-together and the ensuing spiral into self-rumination. 

With Virgin, Lorde reckons with what’s left of herself after the flames have gone out. And in the moment, she allows those who have followed her since the very beginning to take part in this shared catharsis.

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