Lola Young: A Reflection on the Song “Messy”
By Christopher Sopher
Valley of the Sun Press – Music Review
November 22, 2025
The first time I heard “Messy”,
it was already familiar—
like a song from another time,
a lost track spinning in a dim-lit bar,
something European, maybe new wave,
or a voice from a vinyl left out in the rain,
its sound warped but perfect.
I let it sit on the shelf of my mind,
a melody half-remembered,
like a face you know but can’t place.
Then I found it again—
trending, circling, calling.
That voice. That smoky-blue voice.
I close my eyes,
and the sound blankets over me,
wrapping my body in static warmth.
A pulse, a flicker—
then her voice kicks in,
sultry, raw, stretching syllables like elastic.
A whisper, then a burn.
A cry disguised as cool.
“Who do you want me to be?”
She sings, her voice shifting,
a jagged blue note bending into air,
trembling between heartbreak and defiance.
I know this place.
I’ve lived in this sound.
The ache of being too much,
the ache of never being enough.
The irony slaps like a door swinging shut:
“You want me to get a job…
but then you ask me where I’ve been.”
A conversation that loops
like a broken record,
like a lover who never listens,
like a game you never win.
And then the bite—
the sharp, electric, unapologetic sting
of a curse word placed just right.
I feel it. I taste it.
Power words,
like the ones I use when I’m too honest in my own songs.
The rhythm shifts,
a late-night confession over cigarette smoke.
“I don’t say hello ‘cause I got high again
and forgot to fold my clothes.”
That voice change—damn.
That’s what pulls me under.
That’s what keeps me here.
The song moves like a wave,
highs and lows crashing into each other,
messy and perfect in its imperfection.
The words twist in riddles,
in the language of someone who loves too hard,
of someone who’s felt unseen.
And then, the gut-punch:
“A thousand people I could be there for you…
and you hate the fucking lot.”
It lingers in the air,
circling like smoke,
dissolving into silence.
And just like that, it ends—
but the feeling stays.
