With Leah’s help, we turn our attention to Kim Petras. (And mourn what might have been, lest for our untimely demise.)

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[4.94]
Wayne Weizhen Zhang: When she’s not being a trailblazer for the world’s worst song (can you imagine the hypothetical TSJ blurbs for “Unholy”?), or receiving ire for Feed the Beast (which I secretly adore for how plodding and simple its pop vision is), it turns out Kim Petras remembers how to write a fun hook. “Brrrr” is camp embodied, far from transgressive, but delightful in its queer, whirring onomatopoeia.
[7]
Jacob Sujin Kuppermann: I lived in queer co-ops from 2018 to 2020 so I’ve spent a non-negligible amount of time trying to appreciate Kim Petras. In that time — and in the years following — I’ve gotten precisely nothing out of this endeavor. The arc of Kim Petras’s career is unintelligible to me, a grand chronicle in a language I can’t read. If anything, her journey from “fake pop star my friends swear by” to “maybe real pop star that my friends don’t talk about” is one of attenuation — whatever star-like qualities could be discerned in her strongest early appearances (“I Don’t Want It At All”, the SOPHIE one, the Charli XCX one) is absent entirely on “Brrr” — even the campy thrill of “Coconuts” and her vampy turn on “Unholy” is hard to discern here. The Kim Petras of “Brrr” is a rictus grin of forced slay, a joyless demonstration of force of will wrapping in third-generation Yeezus pop-industrial beats.
[2]
Hannah Jocelyn: Alright, who gave Rami Yacoub the SOPHIE sample pack from Splice? Forget hyperpop; this is hypopop, devoid of any sort of invention or interesting production that once defined the genre. This is what CRASH sounds like to people that hate CRASH; this is what 10,000 Gecs sounds like to people who hate that record. Petras has no distinctive identity here; I don’t even hear a woo-ahh; she even says “you don’t know me all too well” and I agree.
[3]
Oliver Maier: Don’t have any idea what “if you think you’re so cold, brr” is supposed to mean and producers ILYA and Rami evidently got overexcited with the SOPHIE sample pack. Improbably, it mostly gels. Kim Petras is probably evil but her performance here is seismic.
[7]
Will Adams: I’ll give her this: I can’t remember the last time a pop song’s central hook landed with such a tremendous thud as “IF YOU THINK YOU’RE SO COLD. BURRRRRR.”
[3]
Brad Shoup: That hook — ouch. It would kill in the writers’ room of an industry drama. The pre-chorus — where she retreats for a second just to explode — breaks up the squelch just fine. This looms more than it bangs, which feels right for a song I thought said if you like it baby, haunt a lobby.
[4]
Nortey Dowuona: The bass drum in this is novel in that nothing is actually done upon closer inspection. There’s a lot done with the synths, especially with the quick zaps of melodies that bubble up during the second pre-chorus, the quick bubbly riff at the tail end of the chorus, and the light motif at the beginning that is so thin it disappears upon quicker inspection. These all sound delightful, but listen to the bass drums, stripped of their ability to carry the baseline or shift the rhythm of the song. They could’ve been replaced with literally any kind of drum sound and it would function the same. It’s just thrown in there since capital-p Pop music has absorbed rap production techniques wholesale without paying attention to how it’s used. This could be coming from say, house or bass music, but nobody who made bass music would program bass drums this way, right?
[4]
Micha Cavaseno: Extremely funny to hear the punchline flow still utilized as a hook in pop in 2023, because all the parts that feel very much like the past aren’t the obviously retro-touches. The robotic elements of the production going for tech-electro knuckle-drag are nice and sleek, a classic vehicle if ever there was one even 40 years after this stuff was a trope. But the brrr, the filter on the backing vocals, the devil-may-care attitude gone world weary all meanwhile feels like the clichés of a decade ago that don’t quite feel ready for nostalgia. I guess there’s something to be said about a record that feels beholden to its dated elements being so “cold”, but not everything cold is super inviting.
[3]
Will Rivitz: As cold as a fridge set a degree or two above the FDA standard, and as enthralling as a piece of iceberg lettuce dessicated after a week left inside.
[4]
Aaron Bergstrom: *Kenneth Parcell voice* “What’s cocaine like?”
[2]
Alfred Soto: What sucks is that this song doesn’t suck. My students could’ve commissioned the vocal from several AI resources, the electronics don’t grate. What sucks is that the hook sucks. “Did she really sing, ‘If you think you’re so cold, brr’?!” On first listen it sounded like “If you think you’re so-ber.” Guess which I prefer.
[5]
Taylor Alatorre: Kim Petras released two albums in 2023 and I honestly didn’t remember that this was on one of them. It provides a glimpse into one potential Bad Ending to her still-promising career: getting so hyped off the Sam Smith streaming numbers that she loses the ability to discriminate between “bad bitch energy” and movie trailer music.
[4]
Harlan Talib Ockey: After the mediocre “Unholy” and laughable “If Jesus Was a Rockstar”, “Brrr” actually sounded… good? Petras’ delivery in the chorus is like getting smashed with a warhammer. The production is utterly headache-inducing (compliment). However, the verses feel less and less substantial on repeat listens, and it never builds to a peak higher than its first chorus. This is a solid album track, not a course-correcting lead single.
[5]
Katherine St Asaph: Feed the Beast was named for its raison d’etre: source enough pop songs to hit your label KPIs, then spray and pray and slay. What’s less remarked upon is how many of these songs come from writers and producers who really haven’t released much lately: Sarah Hudson, Ali Tamposi, Ester Dean (!!), and “Brr” producer Ilya. (Unfortunately, Dr. Luke has released plenty lately.) Also involved in “Brr”: a session guitarist for The Weeknd and a guy who goes by the Instagram handle @industryplant; this ain’t the A-list. One wonders how long this material was sitting in the pantry before it fed the beast. Specifically, “Brr” sounds like a demo written for Thank U, Next (in which Ilya was heavily involved), then rejected for sounding less sexy than sad. Whatever the song’s provenance, Petras has it now, and she executes the motions of flirtation with bleak competence. And I don’t hate it! The record’s already cynical as fuck; why not put that subtextual cynicism into the music?
[7]
Ian Mathers: The sound of not just calling someone’s bluff, but relishing in it. There’s no winning; either way, you’re going to prove her point. Rarely does a discussion of temperature sound so purely withering.
[9]
Leah Isobel: SOPHIE’s absence hovers over me a lot, which is dumb, because we never met. I am just a fan; I saw SOPHIE live exactly once, about six months after I started hormones. I can picture myself that night vividly — in a thrifted jersey dress, cut low, that I had to duct tape to my tits so I wouldn’t break the law; in impractical high heels that another girl, who I don’t talk to anymore and who probably didn’t really like me, gave to me; my eyeliner as sharp as I could draw it; my hair tangled and messy but long, the way I liked, the way I’d dreamed about for years. I remember that night and I remember the relief, the stupid fucking unbelievable unbearable incomprehensible relief of that whole year, how I had denied and ignored myself for so long that just being who I wanted 2 be was incredible enough to set my head spinning. That year, the girl who doesn’t talk to me anymore got into Kim Petras. I treated her work like a guilty pleasure; “Hills” was spacey and fun and exuberant, “Hillside Boys” was tender and sweet and exuberant, “All The Time” was bouncy and bright and exuberant. But all that joy was tempered by the knowledge of Dr. Luke’s fucking greasy hands gripping her recording contract. His presence indicated something that I didn’t understand yet, and maybe still don’t, though it makes sense intellectually: that if you want to be a part of society, the recognition you feel within yourself doesn’t actually matter that much if everyone around you hates you for it; that people are ultimately social, and being forced to choose between external ostracization (with the threat of physical death by violence) and internal spiritual death (with the threat of physical death by isolation) is one of the cruelest things to do to a person, and yet this is the choice I was given, that #girlslikeus are all given. No matter what I choose, there will be genuinely evil soulless fuckers who look at me and say that it was really my fault to begin with because my presence — just my existence in the world — is proof of moral, social, civilization-wide decay. Cisgender women get to talk about their innocence as if it’s a birthright. Transgender women are not given any innocence to begin with. Kim was put in front of the media at sixteen years old to explain her decision to get bottom surgery; it makes me feel crazy to watch those interviews, to know that what everyone is actually talking about is her body. No matter how ostensibly supportive those interview segments were, no matter what the intent, the knock-on effect was to make her teenage body a matter of public record, to take away her privacy and dignity because it’s just so interesting that trans girls exist and, please, tell us more about your genitals! I see the neon-bright straight line from the invasive, violating, violent “curious” “empathetic” gaze in these interviews to the music Kim would go on to make, in which the fact of her body hovers on the edges of her songs, freighting them with meaning, making their frivolity feel manic and fearful and rebellious and unbelievably significant. Jules Giles-Peterson describes the opening line of “Hillside Boys” — “My silhouette is in the frame of your shades again” — as evidence of her desire just to be seen, linking the heterosexual gaze of the individual man and the patriarchal gaze of the pop industry together. Her whole perspective on herself is compromised by the knowledge that she has to constantly prove her worth to other people and to society at large; there is never, ever a moment of rest. But that song held up the capacity for feeling as proof that things could change someday. “It’s over in your Range Rover… You look so pretty when you’re breaking me, yeah” mourned the loss but rejoiced in the ability to feel it. But when “Brrr” revisits that Range Rover, it’s to remove all sense of warmth, desire, or real emotion from the image: “Turn the heat up in your Rover Why don’t you take it out on me?/ If you think you’re so cold, brrr.” “Brrr” leaves absolutely no space in its tense, cold atmosphere for Kim to express a desire that feels authentic and real; it is about embodying what other people want from you so thoroughly that you have gone numb to what it is that you want. In Kim’s work, being a woman and being a pop star are the same thing; the gaze is constant and inescapable. There is no interiority anymore. The demands of disclosure and confession and surveillance are too great. In the background, faux-SOPHIE wubs and schwacks and clangs rattle like ghosts, banging on the wall between death and life, between what should be — what was promised — and what actually is. More than anything, in “Brrr” I hear a grief so wide it could — and should — swallow her whole. SOPHIE is gone. Kim remains. But in our broken promise of a world, where her body — my body — is public property that politicians and lovers and friends and music producers can dispose of at will, what is there left to take joy in? This is the truth: being trans is wonderful, and everyone around me sees it as terrible. Transitioning saved my life, and everyone around me thinks that I died. I have never been this happy; I have never been this desolate. I have never loved so deeply. I have never felt loss this acutely. “Brrr” is purely evil in its emotional perspective, in what it says about the world we live in. And it is also the most honest song ever made.
[10]
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