R.I.P. Brat Summer - Rest In Poppers

Do you remember where you were? When the clock struck midnight on June 7, 2024? When Brat Summer seized control of girls, gays, and theys all across the globe? As I laid atop my red satin duvet in my Harry Potter closet-sized Manhattan bedroom, I connected my air pods, sparked a joint, and closed my eyes. Tracks 1 and 2 had already been on constant repeat* for the past two weeks, so when track number 3 started, the real ride began. From the very first beat of Sympathy is a Knife, I was instantly transported to the middle of the dancefloor of The Rosemont**. My skin vibrated, my limbs flailed, my body convulsed like an exorcism, Charli XCX-orcism? I rolled around in my bed stoned out of my mind, witnessing hit after hit. The beautiful balance of club classics (no pun intended) and raw, vulnerable lyrics was extremely refreshing and brought new meaning to the phrases “crying in the club.”  

*Call back to an old Charli song.

**A (a glory) hole-in-the-wall gay bar filled with sweaty, shirtless, and blacked out Brooklyn twinks.

Many (straight) people ask me, what makes something Brat? Forbes defined Brat as a “Compliment towards a person or action emulating confident rebellion, playful defiance and boldness.” From passing a joint with your Uber driver to being passed around at an underwear party, Brat is whatever you classify as going against the grain, very do-it-for-the-plot mentality.

If the bouncer asks you, “Who are you here for?” and you snap back with “I’m just here.” That’s Brat.

If you wake up out of blackout and realize you’re at a warehouse rave in Bushwick, surrounded by DJs in masks, Brat.

Messaging the father of the kids you babysit on Tinder, big Brat behavior.

Hooking up in a train station bathroom, that’s Brat.

Sucking dick underneath a boardwalk, Brat.

Losing your phone while you fall into a K-hole in Hell’s Kitchen, Brat.

Okay, maybe those last two were just me.

If you can picture the album playing in the background at any point, then it’s Brat.

Brat is an anthem for all the little gay boys that stayed up watching The Simple Life or cried when Britney was ridiculed for her iconic 2007 VMA performance to “Gimme More.” As much as I could picture this album playing at any club, I could also picture my younger self illegally downloading this album on LimeWire and making up dance after dance in my childhood computer room.

Like most gay boys my age, I grew up watching Paris, Britney, and Lindsay’s rise to fame in real time. These women were like gods to me, and watching them party in the tabloids one day, then pose for a campaign the next, seemed like a fantasy world that was untouchable. My parents used to own a gas station, and I would stare in awe at tabloid headlines like “Hot Young Heiresses Partying Up a Storm,” “Bimbo Summit,” “36 Famous Lovers Exposed” and “Shame of the City.” My little gay mind envied how they got to have it all: partying and stardom.

However, with what seems to be an oversaturation of internet fame, I feel that we’ve forgotten the very genesis of “influencer culture.” We’ve forgotten that the real fun of partying is the thrill of the unknown, not for the Instagram pic. We’ve forgotten that celebs used to NOT want to be seen partying because of the shit they would get into. Brat is a vessel for us to remember a simpler time, when bitches dancing on tables till 6 AM with flip phones were at the top of their game.

The entire rollout also just says so much about girlhood. Charli having Lorde feature on a song about the struggles of their friendship whilst “working it out on the remix” and Billie Eilish featuring for one of the very first times on another artist’s song. The best part? Her verse is deliciously lesbian. Combining incredible music production, provocative but thoughtful lyrics, and a clear target audience, Brat is a masterclass in how to create a distinct era without being gimmicky. Using just one singular color, Charli didn’t just make songs, she made people feel something. And yes, maybe that something was an old drip in the back of your throat but, nonetheless, something.