Let me ask you this: What if the greatest art we create is the one thing we can’t hold onto? That’s the paradox Charli XCX seems to be dancing with these days. Her recent Outside Lands performance wasn’t just a concert—it was a masterclass in how to confront the void of fame, art, and mortality while still making people want to scream along. And honestly? It’s the kind of thing that makes me rethink everything I thought I knew about pop stardom.
You see, Charli isn’t just a musician anymore. She’s a philosopher in neon, a curator of contradictions. When she stood on that ziggurat stage—yes, a ziggurat, not a pyramid—she wasn’t just playing songs. She was building a temple to the fleeting. That structure, with its tiered levels and communal space, felt like a slap in the face to the idea of the solitary genius. The tiers weren’t for climbing to some unreachable peak; they were for doing. For sharing. For reminding us that art isn’t a monument—it’s a party. Or as she put it in her new album, Music, Fashion, Film: "I think the dancefloor is dead." Oh, how that line cuts. It’s not just about a literal dancefloor; it’s about the death of the illusion that we can keep the party going forever. And yet, here she was, making us feel it in our bones.
What makes this particularly fascinating is how she weaponizes her own fame against itself. BRAT Summer was this explosion—a meteor that lit up the sky and left everyone breathless. But Charli doesn’t just ride the wave; she dissects it. Her new album is a love letter to the things that can’t last: fashion trends, music genres, even the idea of being "immortal." The David Cronenberg monologue at the end? That wasn’t just a flourish. It was a thesis. A reminder that all the fame, all the accolades, all the viral moments—none of it matters if you’re not there to feel it. And if you are? Well, you’re still going to die. But hey, at least you got to be alive for a while.
Now, let’s talk about the stage design. That ziggurat? It’s a metaphor I didn’t even realize I needed. Unlike a pyramid, which screams "I’m above you," a ziggurat is about community. It’s a structure that invites people to gather, to interact. Charli’s show felt like a collective ritual, not a solo performance. When she ditched the band for a catwalk of women in t-shirts that read "I ♡ Pink Diamond" or "I ♡ Fact Checking," it wasn’t just a gimmick. It was a statement. Here was an artist who had the world at her feet, but she was choosing to build something that included the crowd. In my opinion, that’s the real rebellion: not rejecting fame, but refusing to let it isolate you.
And then there’s the music itself. Music, Fashion, Film is a strange beast. It’s slimmer, meaner, and thornier than BRAT, which is saying something. But what’s interesting is how she’s taking the simplicity of pop and twisting it into something subversive. Take "Apple," one of the most straightforward tracks from BRAT. On stage, it became something else entirely—a moment where the band setup felt like a relic, a reminder of how much has changed. Yet, the song still worked. Because that’s the magic of pop: it’s not about complexity. It’s about the feeling that lingers after the last note. Like that seven-note synth intro from "360" that I’ll probably be humming when I’m 80. It’s not just a song; it’s a time machine.
But here’s the thing: Charli’s not just making music. She’s making a case for impermanence as a kind of freedom. When she sang "No One Lasts Forever," flanked by dancers and letting Cronenberg’s words hang in the air, it wasn’t a sad ending. It was a celebration. A reminder that nothing lasts, but that’s okay. Because if you’re alive right now, you get to feel it. You get to be part of the moment. And that, in itself, is a kind of immortality.
So what does this mean for the rest of us? It means that maybe we should stop trying to cling to the past, or the idea of a perfect future. Maybe the only thing that matters is showing up, being present, and creating something that resonates in the here and now. Because in the end, that’s all we have. And if Charli XCX can turn that truth into a concert that leaves thousands of people breathless, then maybe we’re all allowed to be a little less permanent. A little more alive.
