Mitski
– Puberty 2
Puberty 2 presses its forehead against yours and lets the silence stretch just long enough to feel like a dare. Mitski doesn’t bother sanding off the rough edges—she sharpens them. This album isn’t about finding peace; it’s about making space for pain without letting it consume you. It breathes like a diary read under flickering lights, equal parts confession, accusation, and coping mechanism.
Best of…
The magic here lies in how contradictions coexist. There’s fuzzed-out distortion slamming up against dainty melodies. Violence and sweetness collide in lines that land like punches wrapped in lace. Mitski’s voice can sound detached one second, then bloodletting the next. She’s not interested in clarity—she’s reaching for honesty, even if it makes you squirm. The production walks a fine line: bedroom-recording intimacy with occasional bursts of chaos, like emotions that just can’t be contained anymore.
What really sets Puberty 2 apart is its refusal to offer resolution. Mitski doesn’t wrap things up in a bow. She lets discomfort linger. Love is confusing. Identity is unstable. Joy is fleeting. But the album never asks for pity—it dares you to keep going. In a culture obsessed with branding emotional collapse as self-care aesthetics, Puberty 2 feels like someone lighting a match just to watch it burn down to their fingertips.
Choice Tracks
Your Best American Girl
Equal parts satire and heartbreak, this one starts as a gentle acoustic lullaby before erupting into a storm of guitar fuzz. Mitski tackles assimilation, rejection, and self-erasure with a chorus that sounds like she’s tearing herself open just to be heard.
Happy
Industrial beats and an eerily chipper melody give this song an almost mechanical bounce—until you catch the lyrics. It’s about the way joy can sneak in, use you, and leave before the sheets are even cold. There’s no chorus more ironic.
I Bet on Losing Dogs
A slow-motion heartbreak, like crying in the rain because you planned it that way. Mitski’s voice floats just above the surface, as if trying not to sink beneath the sadness. It’s tragic, but somehow comforting.
My Body’s Made of Crushed Little Stars
Barely two minutes of frantic, existential panic. The guitar sounds like it’s being strangled, and Mitski sounds like she’s laughing through tears. A perfect encapsulation of the chaos humming beneath the album’s quieter moments.
Fireworks
This one creeps in on tiptoe but leaves a scar. The imagery is vague and powerful—missed moments, emotional numbness, all painted in icy hues. You’re not sure what exactly happened here, but you feel it anyway.