“Visions of a teenage innocence, how’d I shift shape like that?” Lorde confronts us with mirrors and answers this very question with stark transparency in her latest 11-track album, Virgin.

It has very little to do with what you may think—in fact, I’d turn to the definition Ella Yelich-O’Connor, better known as Lorde to the music world, endorsed on her Instagram story prior to release: “The word 'virgin’, some say, was derived from a Greek word that meant 'not attached to a man, a woman who was "one-in-herself."” Not “inexperience”, she affirmed, but rather strength and independence.

Not that intimacy doesn’t form the core of this record’s listening legacy; fans approached this album, with its three singles, through surprise listening parties in Washington Square Park, cramped bar bathrooms and small club events.

Other entwined themes include youth, reflection and shapeshifting, set to the backdrop of a bustling city.

These themes and setting were already an overture made apparent by the songstress in singles, ‘What Was That,’ ‘Man Of The Year’ and ‘Hammer.’ ‘What Was That,’ released April of this year, was a true return to the Melodrama and Pure Heroine electropop sound, into a more productionally reliant instrumental. It was interesting, exciting. Senses were heightened. Lorde’s follow up single, ‘Man Of The Year,’ wasn’t so sonically astounding (although the build-up past the second chorus is truly awesome), but makes up for it completely through its fascinating content. Her reinvention of self isn’t maturity alone, but a deeper understanding of gender. Finally, ‘Hammer,’ Lorde’s self-proclaimed ode to “city life and horniness” tracks the movement from childhood naivety to independence in the big city.

Released 27 June 2025, the fibre of this release is evidently, accordingly, one of self-reflection and looking into the eyes of the person you see in that mirror, and trying your hardest to connect with them. To understand when exactly those eyes gained wrinkles around them. To understand why exactly it’s so important to have another set next to them, no longer alone. To understand that you don’t have to “belong to anyone.”

The record revolves around the sun, which can be attributed to track three, ‘Shapeshifter’. The track reveals to the listener that she won’t allow the “hands” of her past lovers to become anything “personal,” but then goes on to give us all her innermost thoughts. This is traditionally how Lorde builds her listenership. She’s experienced so many avenues of life at this point, but still assures us that she’s “not affected,” by any of life’s motions. Even the mirror she’s looking in is impersonal: “Mirror, mirror, on his shirt,” but her visions are of “teenage innocence.” Constant contradictions, including in her unaffectedness. But, despite this reassurance, the music swells and we approach the bridge—where it begins to sound less and less true, and morphs to something she is forcing herself to believe. The “I’m not affected,” turns into “Say I’m not affected,” leaving the confidence behind and letting us as the audience see her falter. And maybe she isn’t. But something in the “fall[ing]” tells us that she is, in fact, “affected”.

She’s affected the whole time, by the way. Sorry to call you out, Lorde. But when you’re crashing out in ‘Current Affairs’ and calling out to your mother about how “scared,” you are, or the fact that your “bed is on fire,” it’s pretty clear. Also, the sample caused a lot of controversy, but it sounds great and offers an interesting insight that maybe the romantic interest wasn’t willing to see her suffering, and views her simply, as “pairs of hands.” “You’re in the light, then you’re in the dark… then someone throws a flare;” I wonder if this experiment with what was left after a socio-political shitstorm lets the edges fray—or if it’s just the raw, scathed synth that makes you look at yourself properly.

One thing ‘Current Affairs’ does, is remind us why Lorde is such a cultural icon, and why Solar Power was not as commercially successful as her previous records. Solar Power was just out-of-touch, for its then climate—with COVID-19 running rampant through the world, disconnecting us all. It’s a little difficult to want to “throw my cellular device into the water,” when it’s the only thing left to connect me to my friends. What Virgin is, is fully, totally aware of the zeitgeist. Embracing her position as pop-starlet in the real world, where technology forms the forefront, she allows for metaphor to prevail. Thus, she simultaneously fulfills her responsibility to respond to pop-culture, whilst being true to her lyrical self.

Metaphor is weaponised in ‘Favourite Daughter,’ wherein it is unclear whether she pities, or is grateful for, or admires, or is frustrated with her mother’s influence. As this record is established as a breeding ground for contradiction, it is probably safe to assume that all are true. Knowing that being a musician is one of her longest-lasting public relationships, it can also be understood that she’s singing to an audience—something she evinces in an interview. She discussed “wanting so badly to be loved,” which is inspirational for a pop-artist to reveal. That longing for fame is often undesirable in celebrities, but, baring her true form, Lorde admits to such longing.

This is, after all, a narrative of reflection and transparency.

‘Clearblue’ is, in no uncertain terms, the leader of this transparency, both in sound and lyricism—and thus, becomes a stellar standout. In most songs of this record, there is a reliance on world-building, on depicting a literal scene: “A place in the city / A chair and a bed,” in ‘What Was That;’ or “Stood in the park under the eclipse,” in ‘Current Affairs;’ or “In the city… hear their horses running up Prince Street;” in ‘If She Could See Me Now.’ ‘Clearblue’ depicts a temporal scene by way of vocoder: “after the ecstasy, testing for pregnancy.” Intimacy and introspection surround this song, which acts as an almost-interlude shifting the album from reflection to introspection, transforming the listener to a voyeur. From looking in the mirror and seeing your younger version with you, or seeing someone else there beside you, to only seeing yourself.

For example, ‘GRWM,’ which represents “grown woman.” This song reminds me of Solar Power, sonically resembling ‘Dominoes,’ not just with the cooling synth, but also with the lyrical concern. It evokes the same, familiar natural imagery, “jumping from stone to stone in the riverbed,” while also outwardly grappling with the troubles of development. These issues have embedded themselves conceptually in her last two records—think, ‘Secrets From A Girl (Who’s Seen It All).’ 

In many ways, having a wide-spanning and deep knowledge of Lorde’s discography is both a notable benefit and nonessential. As this record spans across and interpolates so many conceptual, lyrical and sonic aspects of her previous records, it feels like another book in the series, and makes previous records more interesting, in the process. Listening to Pure Heroine after listening to ‘Favourite Daughter,’ for example, focuses the external pressures driving that album. However, when knowing that this record summarises its predecessors, it shifts the ‘Lorde Required Listening List,’ perhaps, to Virgin alone. Although, at this point, it is difficult to tell if it will dethrone Melodrama from its magnum-opus status.

The funny thing is, so many of the concepts uncovered in this album have already been explored by Lorde. Shapeshifting doesn’t necessarily mean you change who you are fundamentally. She even divulges this within the song by “going back to the clay,” like she’s just remoulding herself, still made of the same stuff she always has been.

But it is new. It’s still all very new. I think an unfair critique wagered against Virgin is that it is ‘monotone,’ or not dissimilar from her previous works. I do think partly, this record requires a bit of patience, some digestion. But primarily, it requires a willingness to invade. Everything in this album is delivered at a higher frequency of personhood than the ones prior, with every lyric feeling as though it’s lifted directly from her diary. Fractured representations of her surroundings, and truthful revelations about her deep-seated feelings: Lorde braves the current of a pop-sphere she hasn’t touched since Melodrama, where real world catastrophe intersects scarily with her own growth. Looking at the mirror is a forgotten, menial glance. Seeing in the mirror, however, is a commitment. ‘If She Could See Me Now,’ speaks to this reality: harkening her younger self’s dreams to realise her own gratitude.

Lorde is reflecting, hence this constant interpolation. Nothing here, in this corner of the music, can be viewed in the periphery. Which blends finally, to the project shapeshifting from these introspections to a closer that is relatively forward thinking. I mean, what’s left is the feeling that the future has something the mirror currently could never offer: hindsight.

‘David’ becomes her true, final form: emerging after chipping away at herself—much like Michaelangelo’s ‘David’. The most aurally immersive and taxing track of the album asks, perhaps desperately, “Why do we run to the ones we do?” An already bad situation made worse by someone else isn’t desirable—but Lorde continues to grapple with this. A cliffhanger, maybe. Even ending on the question, “Am I ever gonna love again?” feels like she’s telling us to be patient while she reports back with an answer.

In an accordingly orgasmic release, Lorde reveals herself as someone who “doesn’t belong to anyone.” The high production lets up, and it feels like accessing genuine freedom. She’s hinting at finding an end to the reflection.

When you chip away at this marbled statue of you right now, what will be left is someone ready to be witnessed in the mirror. Prepare the chisel.
Look at you, marble block.
Look what you can be. Shapeshift.

But how does one shapeshift? Lorde’s advice is to punch the mirrors. It’s just “Broken Glass”. Sit “all alone in [your] room.” Reflect and chip away.