“D-don’t even try to gi-give me shit / I’ve earned the right to b-be like this,” Kesha stutter-sings on the jaunty “JOYRIDE,” a line that can easily sum up her whole artistic ethos. The Los Angeles-born-and-based party pop artist has consistently prided herself on her shamelessness, espousing an IDGAF attitude via her rowdy, outspoken personality and champagne-soaked sonic textures. Her trashy early-2010s image—the Auto-Tuned voice, the provocative, over-enunciated lyrics, the messy, dirty blonde hair and glittery makeup, the dollar sign in the first iteration of her stage name—will always be what she’s best known for, an aesthetic that would go on to define that era of carefree, club-friendly, post-recession pop many still yearn for.
It’s also an aesthetic Kesha has gradually and understandably strayed away from, likely due to its association with Dr. Luke, the producer partially responsible for catapulting her into fame and heavily limiting her agency. Kesha’s highly publicized sexual abuse lawsuit against him not only kept her in a creative limbo for several years, but also forced her into fulfilling the rest of her contract with RCA and Kemosabe Records. Even with these restraints, the three records Kesha made to fulfill those obligations—2017’s Rainbow, 2020’s High Road, and 2023’s Gag Order—found her in an intriguing experimental phase. She toyed with different genres like country, folk, and psychedelia, worked with a handful of unexpected collaborators (Eagles of Death Metal, Sturgill Simpson, Rick Rubin, the late Brian Wilson), and subtextually called out Dr. Luke’s predatory behavior through rousing, righteous anthems.
The results from these efforts were never quite as satisfying as one would hope, especially considering Kesha’s undeniable vocal talent and eagerness to take risks, but each of these albums at least established the kind of artist Kesha aspired to be: unapologetic, genre-fluid, and hard to pin down. Given the media frenzy Kesha had to endure with this lawsuit, one would expect that the project she would make after finally parting ways with RCA and Kemosabe would be more daring, refined, and cathartic than anything she’s made before. It’s a shame, then, that her sixth album isn’t really any of those things.
Despite being touted by Kesha herself as an embodiment of liberation, . (Period) ironically feels like an album you’d expect from an artist being pressured by their label to cater to the masses rather than one made on the artist’s own terms. The 11-track record plays less like an act of reclamation and more like the algorithmic, smooth-brained pop that Ava Max churns out like clockwork. It is a return to form purely in a technical sense, faintly hearkening back to the flirty talk-singing and buoyant energy that powered Kesha’s early work but without any of the grimy, bratty charm or propulsive hooks.
A charitable reading would assume that the risk aversion here is the creative freedom Kesha is gesturing at, in the sense that Period doesn’t feel beholden to make a big, radical statement and instead prefers a more low-stakes approach toward its pure, unadulterated celebration of partying. But even if that is the case, this easygoing, good-vibes-only mindset doesn’t necessarily translate into the most memorable, enjoyable, or distinctive-sounding music.
“JOYRIDE” is one of the only tracks off Period that feels fresh, and that’s being generous. The song contains a delirious mix of accordion, syncopated handclaps, and a chanting choir that certainly makes for a fun soundtrack to an entertainingly chaotic fancam, but in a regular listening context, it’s a bit of a headache. The same could be said about “BOY CRAZY,” wherein Kesha purrs about her horniness for men over thick, deadening ‘80s synths that grate no matter how many times gay bars play it. The blissed-out “LOVE FOREVER” tries to go for a day-drunk, Daft Punk vibe with its vocoder and disco-laced instrumental, but its numbingly repetitive chorus halts its staying power, making the whole thing sound like a defanged Random Access Memories track.
Borrowing different styles without the substance required to give each style an edge is a pattern that plagues Period. Sometimes, styles clash within the same song, like on opener “FREEDOM,” which starts with two-and-a-half minutes of ambient, Coldplay-adjacent reverb before transitioning into slightly more accessible if still jarring ‘90s funk that echoes the department store jingles of Meghan Trainor. “DELUSIONAL” has a similar tone shift problem, beginning with a cool intro of metallic, A.G. Cook-esque synths before launching into a formulaic, sentimental power ballad.
Other times, the style feels dated and derivative, oscillating between Top-40 country pop (“YIPEE-KI-YAY”), the marching band trumpets and drumlines from 1989-era Taylor Swift (“THE ONE”), the dark New Wave of After Hours-era The Weeknd (“TOO HARD”), and the superficial upbeat electronic sounds you hear on Love Island (“RED FLAG”). And throughout all of these tracks are cleverly rhymed but thematically threadbare lyrics that detail emotional confrontations and messy infatuations, ideas that Kesha once rendered visceral and invigorating on songs like “Your Love is My Drug” and “We R Who We R,” but feel watered-down and uninspired here.
If Kesha claims that Period represents a sincere conduit for her healing from the past decade, all the power to her, but the album’s lackluster execution and chasing of pop music trends make that intention contradictory and difficult to believe. This seeming attempt to make Period appear more zeitgeisty extends to the aesthetic minimalism of Period’s packaging and marketing campaign, which eagle-eyed viewers will note looks very familiar to the recent work of a certain pop star (and fellow Kesha collaborator). Similar to how Charli XCX changed every one of her album covers to match the low-quality title and solid color background of her sixth album BRAT, a large pink dot was superimposed over almost every one of Kesha’s album covers leading up to Period’s release. In contrast, though, to BRAT’s boldness and clear-cut theme, Period feels airless and conceptually shallow. Kesha’s certainly earned the right to act and make whatever she wants, but whether or not what she makes deserves to be critiqued as well remains to be seen.
Sam Rosenberg is a filmmaker and freelance entertainment writer from Los Angeles with bylines in The Daily Beast, Consequence, AltPress and Metacritic. You can find him on Twitter @samiamrosenberg.
