The greatest pitfall of pop music is its inclination to be produced purely for popular appeal. So often true emotions are replaced with empty platitudes and to fit the mould of the style of radio saturation pop standards.
Lemonade doesn’t completely escape all of those problems. Some lyrics sound a little hollow compared to the brittle honesty in other places and certain tracks in the latter stages fail to set the pulses racing to the same extent as earlier ones (looking at you Sandcastles). But neither does it decide to completely play by the rules — it sets a new bar for what we expect from our pop stars.
Is Becky a person, a metaphor, a manifestation of Beyonce’s insecurities? It is possible she is all three at once (the internet has its own ideas). Whatever the truth, one fact is indisputable: Lemonade is Beyonce’s finest album yet, a conceptual rumination on heartbreak and insecurities that will speak even to those entirely indifferent to the travails of a multimillionaires hitched to a rap mogul.
Chill out Hive.
I thought it would get 84-87.
