The rapid rise of Gracie Abrams over the last few years has been fuelled by one distinct, unyielding quality: her willingness to pull back the curtain on the most devastating, hyperspecific corners of modern heartbreak. Following the massive commercial success of 2024’s The Secret of Us, her third studio album, Daughter from Hell, takes a sharp, nocturnal turn into darker thematic territory. Across its 16-song tracklist, the record acts as a running diary of a “heartbroken girl” trying to find closure. It captures a profound, heavy sense of longing for someone who was merely a brief moment in your life rather than a lifetime. While the album stands out as an incredibly vulnerable and atmospheric body of work, it occasionally plays it safe musically, hovering just on the edge of a sonic breakthrough without fully leaving its acoustic-pop comfort zone.
The absolute emotional peak of the album arrives on the devastating standout track, ‘Broke My Heart’. This song embodies exactly what Abrams has built her career on and why her music resonates so deeply. Her performance feels less like a general pop song and more like she is singing directly to the person who caused the damage, laying out her wounds in real time. Backed by atmospheric production co-crafted by Aaron Dessner and Justin Vernon, her lyrics hit with a blunt, conversational impact. When she breathes lines like “I’m gonna carry the pain / For my whole life,” the raw, relatable ache cuts straight through the arrangement. It provides exactly what her fans look for: pure, unsterilised pain translated into music that feels like a gut punch.
Sonically, the project benefits from a fascinating split personality that balances folky grit against “dying inside” pop. On one end, you have the gorgeous folk-pop textures of ‘Sober’. Built around sparse, intricate acoustic guitar plucking, it relies on a raw intimacy that places her bedroom-pop vocal whisper right at the centre of the frame. On the other end, Abrams masterfully masks agonising internal collapse behind upbeat instrumentation. The driving, Dan Nigro-produced single ‘Look at My Life’ is an immediate highlight that explores the stark contradiction of looking like you have it completely all together on the outside while quietly dying inside. The shimmering synth architecture drives the song forward, brilliantly turning an emotional crisis into a stadium-scale anthem. Similarly, the rhythmic steps of ‘Men Like You’ and ‘Good Reason’ dive deep into the messy psychological aftermath of short-lived relationships, balancing anger with the heavy guilt of trying to move on.
Providing a much-needed burst of energy against the heavier, downbeat textures of the record is the co-written highlight, ‘Minibar’. Written alongside frequent collaborator and friend Audrey Hobert, the track shakes up the album’s pacing by introducing a distinctly more upbeat, rhythmic stride. While the production feels lighter and punchier than the somber tracks preceding it, the lyricism remains classic Abrams, navigating social anxiety and party displacement. Lines like “I’m at the party minibar… think I’m high and everybody knows” brilliantly bridge the gap between danceable energy and crippling vulnerability.
This burst of energy quickly gives way to the album’s emotional cycle, falling back into the sombre, quiet space of ‘Imaginary Friend’. This intentional rise and fall in the album’s pacing feels like a brilliant play on the emotional cycles of grief. It captures the reality of pretending you are perfectly fine in public, only to fall apart as soon as you are alone.
The record’s sole collaboration, ‘What If It’s Right?’ featuring Marcus Mumford, introduces a traditional folk-rock lilt. Known for his acoustic roots with Mumford & Sons, Mumford brings a rustic, warm presence that blends seamlessly with Abrams’ soft, textured delivery. Their vocal harmonies work beautifully together, though the song unfortunately suffers from a flat, repetitive musical pace that keeps it from reaching a true peak.
The album finds its true, deeply devastating climax on the closing track, ‘Cold Goodbyes’, which handles themes of absolute rock-bottom despair. It is easily the heaviest and most profound song Abrams has ever released, stripping away all pop pretences to address the terrifying, quiet thoughts of wanting to end it all when you are completely lost and overwhelmed. Over a fragile acoustic canvas, she sings: “Bottle on the table, I’m not always kind / Wrote a note addressed to no one, left for somebody to find / I wish we tried to hold her, should’ve kept an open line.” The imagery of the bottle, the unaddressed farewell note, and the tragic regret of a missed connection captures a paralysing mental state where slipping away entirely feels like the only escape left. When she transitions into the haunting chorus—“I know better than cold goodbyes / I still make-believe them sometimes”, the track becomes a breathtakingly raw confession of a mind battling its own darkest impulses, cementing it as the undisputed emotional anchor of the record.
“Oh well, look at my life… bet you can’t tell but it’s kind of a bad time.” — The record serves as an essential soundtrack for navigating the quiet bargains of unresolved grief.
Ultimately, ‘Daughter from Hell’ delivers a compelling but safe step forward for the young artist. If there is a core critique to be made, it is that Abrams occasionally holds herself back from diving into the absolute depths of these darker arrangements. The lyricism is incredibly sharp and the emotional weight is undeniable, but the musical progressions can sometimes feel slightly formulaic, relying heavily on the established safety net of her past bedroom-pop structures. However, it remains a beautiful, highly evocative evolution for the singer-songwriter. It proves that even when she’s playing it safe, Gracie Abrams remains one of her generation’s most authentic emotional narrators.
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