âSome Days Iâm a Woman, Some Days Iâm a Manâ: Lordeâs Virgin and the Sound of Becoming
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Released on June 27, 2025, Virgin finds Lorde shedding artifice and confronting herself in ways weâve never seen before. This fourth studio album, her first in four years (a cyclical period for her), since the sun-drenched Solar Power, marks a dramatic return to emotional intensity. But Virgin isnât just a sonic shift. Itâs a raw, genre-defying exploration of identity, shame, intimacy, and gender. While Lorde continues to identify as a cis woman, she blurs boundaries throughout the album, embracing fluidity in a way that resonates with gender-diverse listeners.
Already, Virgin is being hailed by fans and critics alike as her most daring and vulnerable work to date. From major music publications like Rolling Stone to Reddit threads and queer Tumblr circles, the consensus is emerging: this is a cultural statement.
A New Era of Vulnerability and Honesty in Pop
From the outset, Lorde made it clear: Virgin would be different. Describing the album as â100% written in blood,â she signalled a visceral shift in her artistry as a raw, unfiltered reckoning with the self. This isnât just a sonic evolution from 2021âs Solar Power; itâs an emotional one. The breezy, sun-soaked haze of that era has burned off. In its place is something bare, unsettling, and strikingly human.
On Virgin, Lorde dismantles the polished pop narrative and leans fully into discomfort. The albumâs cover, an X-ray of her pelvis, is more than aesthetic. Itâs a declaration of vulnerability, a literal look beneath the surface. In her pre-release newsletter, she spoke of striving for âFULL TRANSPARENCY⌠I was trying to see myself, all the way through,â and wanting to reflect a version of femininity that is âraw, primal, innocent, elegant, openhearted, spiritual, masc.â That rare inclusion of âmascâ alongside traditionally feminine traits isnât a throwaway; it hints at the fluidity and self-examination that define this record.
Lorde confessed she was âscaredâ to release something so nakedly honest, yet also âproud.â And rightly so. Because Virgin doesnât just dip into vulnerability, but instead dives headfirst, shedding any protective irony or metaphor. The result? A project thatâs part emotional bloodletting, part spiritual exorcism, and deeply resonant for listeners navigating identity, gender, and selfhood.
That intensity is immediately felt. From the very first listen, Virgin stuns with its lyrical openness. One of the albumâs most talked-about lines, âYou tasted my underwearâ, arrives early, disarming and unforgettable. Lorde herself joked sheâd ânever heard that in a song beforeâ. But moments like this arenât played for shock value. They reflect a larger commitment to truth-telling, even when itâs messy, awkward, or deeply intimate.
As critics have noted, even at her most acclaimed (Melodrama, Pure Heroine), Lorde has always maintained a certain distance like a narrator observing the chaos from a poetic remove. Not so here. On Virgin, that final veil is lifted. The songs read like journal entries scrawled in the middle of the night: visceral, unedited, brimming with contradiction.Â
And that honesty is what makes Virgin hit so hard. Itâs not a perfect album, and itâs not trying to be. Instead, itâs a record about trying to find yourself and realising thereâs no clean version of that process. For queer, trans, and nonbinary listeners in particular who are often asked to justify or explain our fluidity to sanitise selfhood feels both radical and familiar.
By choosing truth over polish, Virgin becomes more than an album. Itâs a mirrorâa messy, reflective, beautiful one.
Sonically Stripped-Back Yet Boldly Experimental
If Virgin marks a lyrical unravelling, its sonic palette mirrors that same vulnerability. Lordeâs fourth studio album sounds like she ripped the gloss off her records and leaned fully into imperfection, and in doing so, sheâs crafted one of her most daring sonic statements yet.
Musically, Virgin feels at once familiar and jarringly fresh. It reunites with the sharp-edged alt-pop DNA of Pure Heroine and Melodrama, but this time, thereâs a coarser, more abrasive twist. Lorde trades long-time collaborator Jack Antonoff for electronic producer Jim-E Stack, and the result is a sound world built on percussion-driven beats, eerie textures, and off-kilter experimental flourishes.
Rather than smoothing things over, the production on Virgin embraces distortion and tension. Synths screech, vocals are twisted into âincomprehensible, mangledâ fragments, and ambient echoes sweep through tracks like emotional drafts. The album is rough, a perfect match for the recordâs themes of bodily discomfort, gender dissonance, and emotional exposure.
Gone is the lush, sunlit warmth of Solar Power (also deserving of its flowers). In its place is something colder, darker, and more confrontational. And yet, Lorde doesnât abandon melody. Beneath the rawness lies a steady pulse: big choruses, bold hooks, and cathartic build-ups are still very much present. Even its most delicate moments often explode your body into movement. Tracks like the opener, âHammer,â and lead single, âWhat Was That,â are prime examples, skittering with dance floor beats but undercut by lyrical anxiety.
A no-skip album that flows with almost terrifying cohesion. Clocking in at just under 40 minutes, itâs a tight, deliberate, and unified piece of work. Nothing feels tacked on or overworked. Lorde isnât aiming for perfection; sheâs aiming for truth, and the music reflects that.
Still, not everyone is sold. Some listeners, especially on first spin, have found the unconventional song structures and lo-fi edges off-putting. Some tracks build with hypnotic intensity, only to end abruptly, refusing the expected climax. A few Reddit users admitted they were left wanting more:
âA lot of the songs feel like they're building to something really special and then just fizzle out.â
â Longjumping_Cat2069, r/popheads
Others felt the minimalism occasionally veered into âpretty midâ territory, claiming the melodies lacked the instant punch of Melodramaâs finest moments.
I must admit that I, too, feel tormented by the series of albums released in the music industry today that clock in at only half an hour, as if they were EPs. The sector has fallen into the habit of TikTokifying songs and albums so that they can go viral or be played on repeat, thereby increasing streams. It is frustrating, and the gays do not ever want to feel as if they are left wanting more.Â
That being said, I would rather have a concise and unified piece of work than unnecessary filler content placed solely to be skipped or listened to independently. I want an album that I can listen to from Track 1 to Track 10 and feel the seamlessness, resonate with the story, and understand the cohesion. Albums were meant to be whole, not compilations.Â
Ultimately, Virgin isnât trying to please everyone. Itâs an immersive listen that's meant to be consumed as a whole, not in fragments. There are no âRoyalsâ-style instant smashes or âGreen Lightâ euphorias here. But thatâs part of its power.
This is an album that reveals itself slowly, not with fireworks, but with friction. And in a pop landscape increasingly driven by algorithm-friendly hits, Virgin stands out by doing the exact opposite: it demands attention, patience, and presence.
Embracing Fluid Identity: âSome Days Iâm a Woman, Some Days Iâm a Manâ
Where Virgin truly transcends the standard pop album is in its bold thematic exploration of gender fluidity and selfhood. Lorde doesnât just sing about personal growth, she questions the very architecture of identity. In doing so, sheâs created a body of work that speaks directly to gender-diverse listeners who rarely see themselves reflected in mainstream pop from a cis artist.
On the standout track âHammerâ, she delivers one of the most resonant lines of her career:⨠âSome days Iâm a woman, some days Iâm a man.â⨠Delivered without fanfare, it lands like a quiet revolution, a lyric that feels both intimate and seismic. Longtime fans recognised the phrase from a 2023 Instagram story, where Lorde captioned an androgynous selfie with the exact same words. At the time, it sparked speculation about her gender identity. But on Virgin, she finally addresses it not through commentary, but through song.
Importantly, Lorde hasnât come out as nonbinary. She still uses she/her pronouns and describes herself, in her own words, as âa woman â except on the days when Iâm a man.â Itâs a paradox that resists classification. Rather than adopting a label, Lorde leans into the ambiguity, the expansiveness. âMy gender got way more expansive when I gave my body more room,â she reflected in an interview â and Virgin is what bloomed in that space.
Behind the music, her process was just as fluid and embodied. She describes slipping on a pair of menâs jeans and feeling a spark of recognition in their shape and fit. Later, while writing the track âMan of the Year,â she physically taped her chest down with duct tape, attempting to inhabit a more masculine posture. She looked in the mirror and was both startled and awakened:
âIt scared me what I saw. I didnât understand it. But I felt something bursting out of me⌠There was this violence to it.ââ¨
Moments like these were transformed into music. And thatâs what makes Virgin so resonant: it doesnât just talk about identity, it embodies it.
Even the albumâs title, Virgin, holds layered meaning. On one level, it refers to a kind of renewal, Lorde has publicly shared that going off hormonal birth control for the first time since age 15 left her feeling âreset,â almost like she was beginning again in her own body. But the word goes deeper. In a newsletter and later an Instagram story, she unpacked its mythological roots:
In ancient usage, âvirginâ didnât mean sexually inexperienced, it meant âwhole unto oneself,â independent and unattached. Some definitions even refer to a âman-woman or androgynous beingâ containing the full potential of a complete human.
That symbolism electrified Lorde. For her, Virgin became not just a metaphor for bodily autonomy, but for reclaiming selfhood, not in binaries, but in wholeness. Sheâs not playing with gender as aesthetic; sheâs confronting it as a structure that has shaped, limited, and now released her.
Across the album, this thread of gender-fluid rebirth interweaves with other core themes: bodily autonomy, generational trauma, and emotional inheritance. In âBroken Glass,â she candidly references her past eating disorder. In âCurrent Affairs,â she combines romantic disillusionment with physical vulnerability in a lyric as raw as it is unforgettable:
âYou tasted my underwear / I knew we were fucked.ââ¨
And in âFavourite Daughter,â she traces her relationship with her mother, dissecting the roles women are taught to play and the pain they quietly carry. These arenât just personal stories, they're cultural commentaries, tied to the expectations of gender and performance.
And still, despite all this heavy introspection, Lorde doesnât claim to have it figured out. In âHammerâ, she concedes:
âIâm ready to feel that I donât have the answers.ââ¨Â
That open-endedness feels central to the entire Virgin era. Itâs an album not of conclusions, but of becoming. It invites listeners to see identity not as something you arrive at, but something you live inside of, day by day.
â¨Lorde isnât rejecting femininity. Sheâs expanding it. And in doing so, sheâs made a pop album that doesnât just nod to queer experiences, it feels queer in its form, its themes, and its fearless messiness.
Pop Culture Impact: A Mainstream Star Blurring Boundaries
With Virgin, Lorde has sparked a cultural conversation that stretches far beyond a typical album cycle. In a pop industry where women are often expected to stay within familiar archetypes, the heartbreak queen, the fashion icon, the marketable muse, Lordeâs public embrace of gender fluidity and self-reclamation feels radical. And more importantly, it feels real.
Comparisons have been made to past gender-bending moments in pop, like BeyoncĂŠâs âIf I Were a Boyâ and Lady Gagaâs alter ego Jo Calderone. But Virgin is different. This isnât a one-off concept song or a character cosplay. Lorde has infused the entire era, from lyrics to visuals to interviews, with the lived reality of fluid identity. Sheâs not putting on masculinity as a costume; sheâs embodying gender expansiveness as part of who she is.
And sheâs doing it without spectacle or declaration. Unlike many stars who "come out" with highly choreographed statements, Lorde avoids tokenism. She hasnât labelled herself, nor claimed a space she doesnât feel belongs to her. Sheâs treating gender as personal and evolving. That nuance has struck a chord with queer listeners, particularly those who feel boxed in by binaries or overwhelmed by the pressure to define themselves. Lorde's stance is clear: this is her truth, not a press release.
The mediaâs response has been telling. Queer publications and progressive critics have largely praised her vulnerability and fluidity. But elsewhere, the reaction has been more polarised. Some conservative and mainstream outlets dismissed her commentary as âwokeâ or accused her of attention-seeking. That alone underscores Lordeâs cultural weight: a single quote from a newsletter can ignite a global gender discourse.
And that discourse matters. Even if some responses are ignorant or mocking, the visibility of gender fluidity in the mainstream is a major cultural shift. It tells us that the binary is no longer the default in pop and that audiences are hungry for artists who speak to the messier, more complex realities of identity.
Artistic Influence: Could Virgin Signal a New Pop Direction?
Musically, Virgin could quietly reshape the pop landscape. In a streaming era dominated by TikTok baits and 2010s nostalgia, Lorde took a sharp left turn by delivering a stripped-back, emotionally raw, genre-defying album with no intention of chasing the charts. And yet, Virgin is still connecting. Its lead single âWhat Was Thatâ debuted at #1 on Spotify US, which is a promising sign that authenticity doesnât have to come at the cost of reach.
If Virgin succeeds commercially, it may give other artists permission to prioritise vulnerability over virality. Lordeâs willingness to be imperfect and to leave in the messy lines, the offbeat structures, the non-radio-friendly emotions is a quiet act of rebellion. Sheâs proving that pop doesnât need polish to resonate.
Reclaiming "Virgin": A Feminist Statement
Finally, itâs impossible to ignore the feminist resonance of the albumâs title. By reclaiming the word âvirginâ, Lorde challenges the patriarchal baggage that has long defined it. She reframes it not as a mark of sexual inexperience, but as a symbol of autonomy, rebirth, and wholeness. In Lordeâs version, a âvirginâ is not defined by men but by the act of returning to oneself.
Itâs a move that echoes her debut-era critiques of materialism and image (âRoyalsâ), but with the maturity of someone whoâs lived through the industryâs expectations and found her own language to push back. The think-pieces are already rolling out. TikTok users are making explainer videos about ancient virgin goddesses. And fans are discussing how Virgin gives us a new cultural lens for understanding gender, power, and self-definition.
Just as Pure Heroine reshaped what teenage rebellion sounded like, Melodrama redefined heartbreak in technicolour, and Solar Power laid the groundwork for introspection and quiet healing, Virgin offers a blueprint for what it means to grow up, break down, and begin again on your own terms.
Final Thoughts: Virgin as a Love Letter to the Self
In the end, Virgin isnât just an album; itâs a reckoning. A ritual. A release. It feels like witnessing an artist turn herself inside out, shedding ego and expectation in real time, and by doing so, offering the rest of us permission to do the same.
As a long-time fan, I found Virgin to be affirming, emotional, and liberating. Itâs the sound of someone choosing to love herself enough to show every scar, contradiction, and fear, and still sing through it. Lorde approaches the good, the bad, and the ugly with an honesty we rarely get from artists of her stature. And this time, sheâs doing it with something she admits she long withheld: compassion.
In her own words: âIâd tried treating myself like s**t⌠turns out, compassion is the answer.â⨠That ethos pulses through Virgin. Even in the tracks filled with shame, confusion, or grief, thereâs a current of self-forgiveness, a belief that truth-telling, no matter how messy, is a path to freedom.
For enby, trans, and queer folks listening, this album hits even deeper. Virgin is a reminder that our journeys arenât linear, and they donât need to be legible to anyone but ourselves. Lorde doesnât tie her story into a bow. She revels in the ambiguity, in the moments of âI donât know,â and makes it sound like freedom. In a world that still demands clarity and cohesion from queer lives, her embrace of the in-between is quietly revolutionary.
By the time the final track fades out, her voice trailing off with âtell themâŚâ â itâs clear: Lorde has been reborn. Not as a new persona, but as herself, finally unfiltered. On her own terms.
Virgin is an album to love, to ponder, to cry to, and to grow with. It critiques the pop machine while honouring the queer truth that we contain multitudes. In an industry that still demands one brand, one sound, one self, Lorde just handed us a blueprint for being everything at once.
And for that, Virgin has not just earned its flowers, â¨it planted the whole garden.
Rating: âď¸âď¸âď¸âď¸Â˝ (4.5/5 stars)
Album: Virgin by Lorde (2025).
Virgin isnât just an artistic shift; itâs a visceral, soul-exposing body of work that invites listeners into the unfiltered becoming of an artist and a person. Itâs not polished pop; itâs pop that bleeds. While not every risk lands cleanly, Lorde's willingness to get messy makes this her most resonant project yet. A slow-burning, queer-coded reckoning for anyone whoâs ever been in flux.
Fave Tracks: Hammer, Shapeshifter, Man of the Year, Favourite Daughter, Broken Glass, David
Best For: Lying on the floor in a towel post-shower, spiralling gently, texting no one back, and wondering who the hell youâre becoming
Queer Core Takeaway: Gender is expansive. Identity is nonlinear. And sometimes, the most radical thing is to be real without apologising. Virgin reminds us that you donât need to be legible to be whole.
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Bops, Body, and Belonging: Addison Raeâs Pop Debut Speaks to the Girls, Gays, and Theysâ¨
