Kesha’s . is a mess of a statement

Going on to write: “I wanted to make the point that it's DELUSIONAL that the world expects artists to continue making art when we are so undervalued. I tried to echo my ideas in the form of a political single cover.” It’s an astonishingly entertaining backtrack, stuffing in commentary where there is none, an interesting way to cement an album cycle that's ostensibly a return to an older, more liberated self.

. (Period), Kesha’s sixth album cleverly released on American Independence Day, is her first record on her own label, freed from the restraint of working with collaborator and abuser Dr. Luke after a very public and ugly sexual assault battle. He has been the subject of her music before, from the astonishing “Praying” to the artsy and uneasy Gag Order, but Period trades self-analysis for hollow bops, placating beats, and trendy boss-bitch quips. If she’s finally free, why does the music feel so stilted?

Most of Gag Order’s eccentricities and the novelties of Rainbow are dropped – Period mainly sticks to the dance-pop she stuck her name on in the 2010s with some obvious injections of new styles (Dua Lipa disco, beer-guzzling country). Barring the gospel-tinted “FREEDOM”, these tracks are by-the-numbers, reaching for the snappy one-liner iconicism of Charli xcx or Lana Del Rey but seeming like a little sibling imitating what she sees. “The crazy in me sees the crazy in you”; “I'm making this song stuck in your head / Maybe this bitch off of her meds,” she sings, “You're fucking crazy and I'm fucking bored.” Who is the target audience for this, girls wearing “Live Laugh Lexapro” T-shirts?

The worst offender is “JOYRIDE”, less of a song and more of an assault; irritating last year, indefensible now. “You want kids? Well, I am Mother,” she drawls, smirking across the accordion-blaring, high-pitched attack on taste. “Love me or you hate me,” she sings later, “I'm iconic, baby.” We need to enter a “mother” embargo, reserved for artists only of the highest caliber – we’re flinging it around for anyone who stomps a house beat to death. The agony of “JOYRIDE” comes with how badly Kesha wants the song to be iconic, Mean Girls references and ‘bitch’-branding in tow. It’s a stab at a self-fulfilling prophecy that bleeds out before the song even ends. In the post-BRAT future, the influx of electropop authority anthems are flooding the system, diluting everyone’s identity; if you’re mother, and she’s serving cunt, then who’s actually making good music?

The bro-country of “YIPPEE-KI-YAY” is desperate for a sing-along (“Bitch, I just got a brand new car / Hose me down at the trailer park”) before launching into the most cloying post-chorus of the year. Though the Daft Punk-like vocoder is a nice touch, the nu-disco chill of “LOVE FOREVER” sounds like a Dua Lipa B-side; Lizzo probably passed on “GLOW” for being too unsubtle. The trumpets and stomps on self-love anthem “THE ONE” feels dated, like a slightly grown-up “Roar.” “BOY CRAZY” at least injects some energy, a jolt of old Kesha sexual hedonism, but what else can you do but shrug when you hear “boys are my cocaine”? If Gag Order’s drink of choice was acid, Period’s is a gas station slushie – easy on the way down until your stomach feels terrible after.

Period’s bookends are where the most interesting work happens – a minutes-long ambient intro is tacked onto “FREEDOM”, but what follows is powerful as she sings “Oh, I’ve been waiting for you now” against a funk-laced background. It’s one of few songs that genuinely feels fun, the freedom she sings of not a destination but a possession. “CATHEDRAL”, the last track, is full of mixed and intentionally provocative imagery (“I'm the savior, I'm the altar, I'm the Holy Ghost”), but its clashing heights and determination narrate a believable inner peace.

It is a net positive now that Kesha is free from the tyranny of working with a label and producer who has literally trapped her in the past. But Period sounds like a record trying its best to be happy – the striking highs of something like “Praying” are nowhere to be found on this allegedly unrestrained album. Now, we have to believe her when she says that she “got that new glow.” Period is music for Instagram Stories, an awkward dip back into party pop that suggests Kesha thinks irritation is the way to enlightenment. Or maybe she’s just rusty. “Don’t even try to give me shit,” she sings, “I’ve earned the right to be like this.” Sure, but it doesn’t mean you should be.