Florence Welch’s new album, Everybody Scream, is not a comeback; it’s a rebirth. It captures the sound of an artist clawing her way out of catastrophe, drenched in glamour, blood, and divine chaos. Written after a near-fatal ectopic pregnancy that almost took her life, the record channels trauma into a kind of sacred fury. Welch doesn’t shy away from the pain; she confronts it, tears it open, and turns it into a ritual.
The opening track, also titled “Everybody Scream,” immediately immerses listeners in a tempest of sound, thunderous organs and electrifying, distorted guitars merge to create an atmospheric storm. Welch’s voice rises above it all like a primal force of nature, fierce and unrestained, seemingly conjuring spirits and deities with every note. It’s an energy that continues to surge throughout the record, but this time it delves into darker and heavier realms, devoid of any pretence. The ethereal mysticism that characterised Dance Fever has been replaced with an unvarnished rawness, pulsating with an authentic blend of sweat and defiance, laying bare the unfiltered human experience.
Across its twelve tracks, the album unfolds like a cinematic fever dream, blending ethereal strings with pulsating industrial synths and the gritty crunch of its guitar. Moments of quiet devastation transform into anthems of resilience, capturing the duality of struggle and triumph. “Kraken” bursts forth with its guttural bassline, while “Perfume and Milk” offers a more intimate atmosphere, with Welch’s whispers layered over flickering keys, evoking a sense of vulnerability.
There’s a biting wit running through the pain. On “Music by Men,” she aims at the gendered hierarchies of the music industry, wryly admitting, “Listening to a song by The 1975, I thought, fuck it, I might as well give music by men a try.” In “One of the Greats,” she mocks the expectation that women must bleed to be brilliant: “It must be nice to be a man and make boring music just because you can.” These moments cut through the drama like a dagger, grounding the grandeur in sharp self-awareness.
Still, for all of its fury, Everybody Scream emerges as a profoundly emotional album, deeply fascinated with the theme of survival. Tracks such as “You Can Have It All” and “Sympathy Magic” feel as though they have been hewn from the very essence of grief, adorned with percussion that resonates like a heartbeat, intricate vocal harmonies that soar above the chaos, and subtle moments of tenderness that provide a gentle contrast to the surrounding tumult. Welch’s voice, simultaneously fractured and fearless, navigates through the lyrical landscape with an urgency that transforms each song into a lifeline for listeners, making them feel both the weight of sorrow and the resilience it can inspire.
Everybody Scream feels like both a confession and a coronation. Florence Welch has turned near-death into something transcendent, something vast. This isn’t just her best work in years; it’s proof that even in the wreckage, she can find something holy.
