Cristian Vasilache

On I think I spoke too soon, British singer-songwriter Rachel Chinouriri turns the contradictions of growing up into glossy pop, finding vulnerability in the space between dancing all night and falling apart.

Growing up rarely feels as straightforward as we expect it to. We learn how to appear confident before we understand ourselves, how to socialize while feeling lonely, and how to move forward even when we have no idea where we are going. On her second album, I think I spoke too soon, Rachel Chinouriri explores these contradictions through a sound that invites you to dance, even when the feelings beneath it suggest otherwise.

Moving away from the more guitar-driven sound of her debut, What A Devastating Turn of Events, Chinouriri embraces brighter synths, dance-pop rhythms, and more polished production. Yet the album’s glossy surface rarely feels like an escape from reality. Instead, it becomes part of the story: an attempt to keep moving when everything underneath feels uncertain.

This tension is established immediately in “One song away from crying,” where the excitement of a night out clashes with the narrator’s fragile emotional state. Looking her best does not mean feeling her best, and the dance floor becomes a temporary distraction from everything she cannot quite bring herself to confront. It is a compelling introduction to one of the album’s central ideas: the gap between the person we present to the world and the one we struggle to understand in private.

That gap becomes harder to ignore in “Broken chair.” Through the image of a discarded chair, Chinouriri captures the fear of being unwanted, using humor and self-deprecation to disguise a deeper sense of loneliness. The narrator insists she is not the broken one, only to gradually recognize herself in the very object she has dismissed. It is one of the album’s most effective moments because it transforms an ordinary image into an uncomfortable confrontation with self-worth. Beneath the partying and the bravado, there is a fear that temporary company might be mistaken for genuine connection.

While these songs explore the struggle to acknowledge emotional pain, “Baby steps” turns toward the difficulty of moving beyond it. The narrator can picture a better future, but reaching it feels exhausting; she wants reassurance, direction, and someone to help carry the weight. Rather than presenting independence as an effortless triumph, Chinouriri recognizes how difficult it can be to rebuild yourself when someone who once provided stability is no longer there. Sometimes, knowing that you need to move forward is much easier than figuring out how to do it.

Together, these songs form a quietly revealing progression: hiding behind a smile, recognizing the loneliness beneath it, and struggling to find a way out. Chinouriri’s writing is strongest when she allows humor and vulnerability to coexist. Her narrators are not always rational or particularly flattering versions of themselves, but that is precisely what makes them feel human. They can be self-aware and self-destructive, desperate for connection yet reluctant to admit how much they need it.

Musically, the contrast between emotional unease and infectious pop is central to the album’s identity. The upbeat production creates a sense of momentum, while the lyrics repeatedly expose the uncertainty beneath it. Chinouriri understands that sadness does not always arrive in the form of a ballad; sometimes, it emerges between drinks, in a crowded room, or on the journey home when the noise finally disappears. The result is music that can be both cathartic and uncomfortable, offering the temporary relief of a dance floor without pretending that dancing solves everything.

The album’s polished direction is not without its limitations. At times, its smooth production risks softening the rawness that makes Chinouriri’s songwriting distinctive. Her most compelling moments are those in which the production and the emotional tension feel inseparable, allowing her conversational delivery, sharp observations, and self-deprecating humor to remain at the center.

Ultimately, I think I spoke too soon finds Chinouriri exploring a familiar but rarely tidy stage of life: the moment when the person you thought you were begins to differ from the person you are becoming. There are no immediate revelations or clean resolutions here, only nights spent pretending to be fine, mornings filled with regret, and the slow realization that growing up means learning to live with uncertainty.

Chinouriri does not offer a neat solution to these contradictions. Instead, she turns them into something communal, transforming private insecurities into songs that feel just as suited to a crowded dance floor as to the quiet journey home. Sometimes, growing up means admitting that you are not as okay as you look. And sometimes, it means finding the courage to keep moving anyway.