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Buena Vista | genius.com |
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Smash on your rosy nostalgia specs, folks, because this week we’re warping all the way back to the diluvian depths of 2003.
Metamorphosis is rooted so early in my timeline that I don’t recall precisely where I first heard those glorious sun-drenched guitars. Surely post- a cassette of ABBA’s greatest hits warped by the baking heat of a Subaru glovebox, but definitely pre- getting into Eurovision slightly too late to experience the fabulous debut of Verka Serduchka.
Possibly contemporaneous with early and impossible edgy works of the Black Eyed Peas.
Hilary Duff was an actor, you see. She starred as the title character in Disney’s Lizzie McGuire, a teen navigating her way through life accompanied only by her cartoonified inner monologue, her two best friends and her iconic crimped hair.
I cannot possible communicate the sheer astonishment I felt when I discovered that a person can do two things.
This electrifying album is jam-packed with feels: devastating kiss-offs — “if you can’t do the math / then get out of the equation” — healing prayers of wisdom — “come tomorrow, it will seem so yesterday” — and pepsome anthems — “you always dress in yellow / when you want to dress in gold […] / so why not take a crazy chance?”
Metamorphosis launches into action from the get-go, hitting its stride with a jaw-dropping epic that propels brooding verses into a club-banging pillow-sobbing chorus:
“Let the rain fall down and wake my dreams /
Let it wash away my sanity /
‘Cause I wanna feel the thunder, I wanna scream /
Let the rain fall down /
I’m coming clean”
You can hear the rush of water and wind in those liquid synthesisers, feel the peals of lightning rippling in the night through the syncopated guitars, truly believe the ingenuity of invoking the storm as a symbol of conflict and its aftermath as resolution. What an innovator.
What was a dark time for fashion was also a fascinating time of transition for pop, a time for loosening and transgressing of ever more porous boundaries.
Like many works of the time, the pastel eyeshadowed Metamorphosisis heavily indebted to Avril Lavigne’s aggressively eyelined Let Go, released the previous year to unanimous critical acclaim. With her no-fucks attitude and girl-next-door relatability, Lavigne single-handedly bridged the circuit between nineties Nirvana’s grunged-up fury and mainstream pop, whose prevailing currents of the time dealt crisply in needle-sharp precision. Metamorphosis reupholstered those chugging guitars and broad backbeats in plush, bouncy colour: a big soft squishy beanbag to fall into, that after all these years can still be trusted to readily offer support.
And it’s not just her audience that Hilary inspired. When she staked her claim as among the earliest Disney stars to pivot to a musical career, she paved the way for her peers and successors: for Demi Lovato to belt her heart out, for Selena Gomez to embrace her sensuality and of course for Miley Cyrus to tap into her boundless imagination.
On this, Hilary’s first proper statement as a musician, she runs the gamut from inimitable teenage sass all the way to achingly inarticulate vulnerability, from the glitter of ‘Why Not’ to the gloom ‘Where Did I Go Right’, drenched in sunny turn-of-the-millennium nostalgia and tied together with effortless charisma. But what sets her apart from the legion of contractually mandated child star singalong debuts is her unimpeachable authenticity, earned through years of televised struggles with clothes and bullies and boys and middle school drama.
Metamorphosis is rooted so early in my timeline that I don’t recall precisely where I first heard those glorious sun-drenched guitars. Surely post- a cassette of ABBA’s greatest hits warped by the baking heat of a Subaru glovebox, but definitely pre- getting into Eurovision slightly too late to experience the fabulous debut of Verka Serduchka.
Possibly contemporaneous with early and impossible edgy works of the Black Eyed Peas.
Hilary Duff was an actor, you see. She starred as the title character in Disney’s Lizzie McGuire, a teen navigating her way through life accompanied only by her cartoonified inner monologue, her two best friends and her iconic crimped hair.
I cannot possible communicate the sheer astonishment I felt when I discovered that a person can do two things.
This electrifying album is jam-packed with feels: devastating kiss-offs — “if you can’t do the math / then get out of the equation” — healing prayers of wisdom — “come tomorrow, it will seem so yesterday” — and pepsome anthems — “you always dress in yellow / when you want to dress in gold […] / so why not take a crazy chance?”
Metamorphosis launches into action from the get-go, hitting its stride with a jaw-dropping epic that propels brooding verses into a club-banging pillow-sobbing chorus:
“Let the rain fall down and wake my dreams /
Let it wash away my sanity /
‘Cause I wanna feel the thunder, I wanna scream /
Let the rain fall down /
I’m coming clean”
You can hear the rush of water and wind in those liquid synthesisers, feel the peals of lightning rippling in the night through the syncopated guitars, truly believe the ingenuity of invoking the storm as a symbol of conflict and its aftermath as resolution. What an innovator.
What was a dark time for fashion was also a fascinating time of transition for pop, a time for loosening and transgressing of ever more porous boundaries.
Like many works of the time, the pastel eyeshadowed Metamorphosisis heavily indebted to Avril Lavigne’s aggressively eyelined Let Go, released the previous year to unanimous critical acclaim. With her no-fucks attitude and girl-next-door relatability, Lavigne single-handedly bridged the circuit between nineties Nirvana’s grunged-up fury and mainstream pop, whose prevailing currents of the time dealt crisply in needle-sharp precision. Metamorphosis reupholstered those chugging guitars and broad backbeats in plush, bouncy colour: a big soft squishy beanbag to fall into, that after all these years can still be trusted to readily offer support.
And it’s not just her audience that Hilary inspired. When she staked her claim as among the earliest Disney stars to pivot to a musical career, she paved the way for her peers and successors: for Demi Lovato to belt her heart out, for Selena Gomez to embrace her sensuality and of course for Miley Cyrus to tap into her boundless imagination.
On this, Hilary’s first proper statement as a musician, she runs the gamut from inimitable teenage sass all the way to achingly inarticulate vulnerability, from the glitter of ‘Why Not’ to the gloom ‘Where Did I Go Right’, drenched in sunny turn-of-the-millennium nostalgia and tied together with effortless charisma. But what sets her apart from the legion of contractually mandated child star singalong debuts is her unimpeachable authenticity, earned through years of televised struggles with clothes and bullies and boys and middle school drama.
Metamorphosis chronicles the joys and heartaches of learning about the world and one’s place in it for the very first time, balancing childhood innocence with newfound confidence. And on the rare occasions where Hilary falters, it only serves to shed a light. When on the title track she doesn’t quite nail the grit behind “give me a kiss / come on, I insist”, she quite understandably shies away from the intention of the action, but not the growing up that it represents.
Who among us hasn’t made a similar demand when we just weren’t ready it?
Metamorphosis captures with perfect clarity a moment of transition in every young person’s life. If only we could all be lucky enough to share our stories with the world.
Who among us hasn’t made a similar demand when we just weren’t ready it?
Metamorphosis captures with perfect clarity a moment of transition in every young person’s life. If only we could all be lucky enough to share our stories with the world.