Permission to Party: Reflections on
Charli XCX's Brat Summer

I first listened to Charli XCX in lockdown with the release of her cult classic “How I'm Feeling Now", the production of which was so cutting edge a subsequent BBC documentary would be created in its honour.

 

“Alone Together” commemorates the haphazard yet irrevocably genius route to the album’s conception; using social media to create an interactive album experience whereby fans could help Charli create music, in real time. It’s fair to say from the first autotuned note, I was hooked. I’ve now been a self proclaimed “angel” for five years, if not slightly ashamedly so. Where in my teenage years I prided myself on my impeccable taste and paraded The Beatles as the hallmark of ‘good music’, in my early and mid twenties my music taste has radically veered into a world of autotune and hyperpop, with Charli leading the battalion. Now, saying goodbye to any trace of my former music snobbery, I have accepted defeat as a pop princess with an unashamed addiction to club kid songs about partying, sex and glamorised drug abuse. And whilst I was at peace with this transition, to voice my love of hyperpop amongst certain condescending male company seemed like social suicide. I wore my love of 100 Gecs, Kim Petras and indeed Charli around my neck like a cig smoking, monster drinking albatross. Until, that is, this year. As of June 2024 it seems that my somewhat guilty admittance into the top 0.0001% of Spotify wrapped Charli listeners is now irredeemably cool. What changed? One word. Brat. 

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If you don't love the sonic rollercoaster of nostalgic, club kid hyperpop, it's hard to overlook the success of the Brat phenomenon as a piece of exemplary new age marketing.

 

The album cover is arresting with its lowercase, low-budget lettering emblazoned on a background of Shrek green. 2024 is, and will irredeemably be, Brat summer. So endearingly inclusive, so unashamedly fun, Brat summer has got us by its lime green chokehold. It is, as Charli says in her sunglassed deadpan, “very luxurious” on the one hand, or as simple as a “strappy white top” and a “pack of cigs” on the other. And yet this kind of hedonistic alt-pop is hardly a new addition to Charli’s impressive discography. Described by Charli herself as an exercise in selling out, “Crash”, her 2022 album, may be a little closer to the kind of hyper-produced mainstream of her more commercial counterparts (think Dua Lipa), however songs like Yuk, which documents the feeling of being overwhelmed by a doting partner, certainly consolidate it as another example of Charli’s subversive tongue-in-cheek authenticity. If we look back further to “How I'm Feeling Now” and the 2019 “Charli” album, both are infected by a lyrical vulnerability and a sensory erraticism akin to Brat. The thing is, even in the wake of Brat, my favourite and arguably the most eccentric of Charli’s production is firmly in her past. And yet why has the world slept on this star for so long? Why has it taken a collaboration with Julia Fox to open our eyes to the voice of a global superstar.

 

Brat summer has resonated with us for a host of reasons. Possibly most importantly, because of its success as a marketing campaign. Brat is not just about the music, in fact clearly for many people it's not about the music at all; it is an aesthetic, it is a way of life, a rulebook for the badass it girls of aspirational 21st century women. Its synonymity with green means that the album markets itself. A lime green traffic cone becomes an ad, a green chair is Brat, Christ, a flixbus is Brat on wheels! But a marketing campaign is only as successful as its ability to appeal to its audience. The frenetic, no-fucks-given ethos of Brat has clearly struck a chord with its audience, because, lets face it, the world has lapped it up with an intoxicating eagerness. But why? For me the success of Brat is at its core a reactionary one. Because if there is one thing Brat stands for it is simply not giving a fuck, it is an unbridled commitment to authenticity that spits in the face of the social structures that try to tame us. To be Brat is to be free and unapologetic for it. 

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In the last few years the dominant rhetoric on social media and popular marketing has firmly moved us away from the kind of hedonism that Charli preaches.

 

2023 has been characterised by an almost obsessive magnetism towards self- improvement, personal growth and healthy living. We’ve seen our feeds dominated with self confessed homebodies like Nara Smith and health conscious ‘clean girls’ preaching natural makeup and slow living. Internet trends like “What I Eat in a Day” or Tiktok’s cultish fixation with Stanley cups demonstrate a shift towards a health consciousness that borders on obsessive. God forbid I have another martini, it might compromise my ten step skin care routine or, worse yet, I might be late to my morning spin class. Whilst I recognise a well-meaning earnestness behind this push to better ourselves, I fear that this wave of self-care establishes unachievable standards for so-called “good living”. Through sheer exposure to this kind of health toxicity I now find myself feeling like a personal failure if I haven't reached these arbitrary goals; I kick myself when I realise I've drunk two litres of water instead of the obligatory four, I sigh accusingly when I don't make 10,000 steps or my protein goals. 2024 seems to offer an exhaustive list of new ways for me to feel bad about my body and my lifestyle. I am bombarded with information about the health benefits of matcha and the necessity of flossing- I find myself watching videos of skinny blonde women eating raw milk and uncooked steak with a morbid curiosity. If this is the key to health and longevity, count me out.  As a generation we have become obsessed with the measurable, entering an era of self-policing that positions us as our own jailor in a dangerous game of numbers and targets. 

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To keep up with the endless barrage of self-care hacks promoted on instagram would take hours each day and countless hundreds of pounds. Unfortunately, I don't have time to meditate, gua-sha and write down my daily gratitudes before work- I slept through my alarm and I'm late for the bus! It's fair to say I have found the health conscious typhoon of the last few years more than a little alienating. Whilst I understand it may have provided a much needed source of community for the introverts, the homebodies and the clean girls, its dominance as a rhetoric has created a culture of guilt around activities that are deemed ‘unhealthy’, vilifying behaviours that stand outside of this prescriptive, often unrealistic narrative. Partying, smoking, junk food, drugs, getting battered on a Friday night are no longer hallmarks of the early twenties experience, but rather furtive vices. Reuniting with old acquaintances from my school days or the early years of university, I am astounded by the number of retired ravers who now spend their days drinking yerba mate and taking long, meditative nature walks, ex-party girls who over mocktails confess they’ve swapped their kitten heels for climbing shoes. In the wrong company, I worry that confessing that I still love a night out will be taken as an admission of my latent immaturity, my inability to simply grow up and move on. It seems for many Gen Z’s partying is unequivocally out. And whilst I praise those who have found fulfilment or sanity in their new path to righteousness, is it not okay if I don't feel the same? The thing is, I still feel like one of life's most transcendent pleasures is a great night out and if I happen to find three pints with my bestie more relaxing than a hot yoga class then so be it. Since when did 23 become too old to party? 

 

 In Brat’s closing number 365, a song that Charli likens to the experience of walking through a mega club, the chorus proudly declares “don’t sleep, don’t eat, just do it on repeat”.

 

Charli’s mantra could not be further from the clean girl ideal, pushing an agenda of reckless partying, of keys in bathrooms and visible lingerie. Sampling nineties icons like Daft Punk and recycling nostalgic club beats, Brat harks back to time when partying was cool. And herein lies the success of Brat, providing a voice to the censored party girl and the marginalised sesh-head. It calls on a lost generation to throw off the shackles of our enforced self-policing, swapping self-care for glamorous self-destruction. Like much of Charli’s discography, the message is campy and tongue-in-cheek; of course I'm sure Charli, like the rest of us, has her off days (for better or worse, not everyday can be a champagne-fuelled bender). Even if we should take Brat with a pinch of salt, it exposes the ludicrousness of modern society's fetishization of self denial and asceticism. It teaches us that frankly it's okay to like a boogie or even a cocktail, or two, or eight. Life is about moderation and balance rather than restriction and self discipline, it is about letting our hair down once in a while and not feeling guilty for it. In a world hellbent on stigmatising fun, Brat dares us to unleash our inner child, to embrace the playful, the reckless and the slightly unhinged. It seems 23 is never too old to party, and neither in Charli’s case is 32. 

 

So as Brat summer comes to a close, cheers to all my fellow party people! Turns out we hadn't gone anywhere, we just needed permission to party.