Two years after her breakthrough single, “Labour,” Paris Paloma returns with an album that carries the same powerful message, woven through “The Fatal Flaw” of our society.
What hurts her is being human. More than that — it is daring to be a woman and seek love in a society that will never love her back. The red, bloodied roots of the problem ran too deep and mangled men, women and their relationships with each other.
Despite the album’s central theme, the opening track “Miyazaki,” named after the co-founder of Studio Ghibli — a highly acclaimed Japanese animation studio —, speaks of a passion, not a lover.
Clad in armor and ready to protect her craft, Paloma begins the album by stating the importance of art. In a society entranced by AI, Paloma refuses to devalue her work. Even if the markets say otherwise, technology cannot replace the feeling of putting your guts on paper and turning them into song.
The topic can seem out of place, but it is a call to attention: art is essential to our society, and we should not ignore the stories it tells.
With the scene set, Paloma draws a love story in blood, with no happy ending. The slow melody of “Rothko” (one of three songs that references art directly) breaks the momentum from “Miyazaki.”
The shift from a powerful beat to stretched-out, longing vocals delivers the message — her feeling of detachment from her lover, lost in the whiplash.
The album breaks in a similar way two more times to indicate a perspective shift: from relationships to the struggles of being a woman, then the generational brutality of men. Instead of a transition, however, it breaks the flow.
Start, stop, start — and suddenly the album ends abruptly without closing the themes it explored. It would have worked better to maintain a stable rhythm throughout each section.
Picking up the tempo again, Paloma’s torment continues. Her lover is violent and apathetic, as she expands in “Stem the Flow.” Regardless, she tries to earn the affection she so desperately craves. Without an alternative, she embraces the hurt through painful vocals; her acceptance is accompanied by the beating of drums in the “Bleeding Part of Me.”
The ever-present cacophony of voices, a resource she has used in many of her past works, reveals that this story does not belong only to her — it reflects the lives of hundreds of women.
Leaving behind the heartbeat-like drums, “get her the f*****g flowers” is softer, reminiscent of a lullaby. Suddenly she takes the role of a mother, instructing her lover on how to treat her properly.
Then the struggle turns inward. The external pressures of society are internalized, and people are left desperate to change themselves. We are envious and afraid, forever putting on a performance to be liked by those around us.
Women force themselves to be a “Pre-Raphaelite,” vibrant like the 14th-century Italian art, and a “Good Girl,” as explained in the songs by the same names. Obedience and hunger are praised with the illusion of desirability. The cacophony returns as dozens of women lament who the world forces them to be.
Both songs show what Paloma is most comfortable with: turning the pains of womanhood into a beautiful melody. Her voice sounds like she is holding back a scream.
Afterward, she turns the mirror around, forcing men to inspect themselves as well. Paloma steps into the manosphere, the predatory digital world of domineering advice created by and for misogynistic men, with “Pyrrhus (you go where I cannot).”
The murdered children are more than a reference to the son of the mythological hero Achilles; they represent every boy who turned into an uncaring man. The song is slower, sung by a mother in mourning.
“Good boy” shows the flip side. With the sounds of dogs barking in the distance, the song mocks the “dumb” men who rule the world. Its mockery stands out in an album focused on heartache — too cheeky.
Originally, “Good Boy” was published as a single alongside “Good Girl.” They should have stayed together on the album to emphasize society’s ridiculous standards of what makes a “good” man or woman. Instead, they are separated by two songs: “Pyrrhus” and “Silhouette on the Hill.”
Praying on the guilt of violent men, “Silhouette on the Hill” brings a ghost to life. Paloma overlaps whispers and her own haunted voice to show the internal struggle of a man who, much like in “The Beating Heart,” regrets hurting someone. Between the repetition and the echo of hooves, it sounds like a chase.
The lack of transitions between points of view becomes apparent with the last two songs, “Beautiful Birds” and “I Cry in Front of Paintings.”
“Beautiful Birds” is a track far too hopeful for the album and would fall better as the ending. In the penultimate stop, it is a “could have been” within a society that valued its people more.
This paradise is mourned in “I Cry in Front of Painting.” Paloma sees art as a wonderful escape from the world she is subjected to, a reflection of something she could have had in another life. There are barely any instruments, just the quiet of her voice.
While both songs are beautiful, the story closes abruptly. We are left with longing and the ruins of the system we call “society.”
“The Fatal Flaw” is human. It is the son of a grief-ridden mother, hoping to make the world better by making her audience understand where we are going wrong.
Rating: 4/5