Last year, Charli xcx said in a number of interviews that bands bore her — she much prefers the club. "I think the dance floor is dead, so now we're making rock music," she sang a few months later on "Rock Music." As quickly as British Vogue dubbed her unfolding project a "rock reinvention," Charli clarified that it wasn't. She alluded to a lengthy break post-BRAT, yet here's Music, Fashion, Film, five months after her soundtrack to Emerald Fennell's Wuthering Heights. Calling Charli a contrarian could make her play by the rules (see: CRASH), and Music, Fashion, Film has the British pop auteur continuing the paradox. Expectations have never been higher for Charli to deliver straight bangers, yet she refreshingly makes her eighth album solely for herself: a love letter to the joys and pains of artistry, persona and legacy. Crafted off the cuff during Paris Fashion Week, Music, Fashion, Film embodies the Parisian flair: chic in simplicity, messy with a little snarl. Though Charli may not love a band, she and producers A. G. Cook and Finn Keane make a great one, fuzzing out synths like guitar and melting guitar into metalloid textures. The wit of Cook's PC Music styling can be misconstrued as self-satirical, but it's more of a childlike awe at the machinery of pop. Charli normally embodies this energy, but Music, Fashion, Film finds her speaking directly to it. A fittingly awkward lead single, "Rock Music" is a brilliant mission statement on the joys of creating for the sake of expression, not perfection. "Jump off the stage / I hope they catch you today / But if they don't, it's okay," she chirps in subtle AutoTune, the least likely entry in the long line of guitar music about rocking out. Yet, this is far from Charli's first foray into rock-adjacency; true Angels remember her brainchild Nasty Cherry, the scuzzy punk "Allergic to Love," her sultry cover of garage rock classic "Money (That's What I Want)." If not sonically, Charli's rule-breaker spunk has been a through-line of her career, arguably a major reason why no-punches-pulled BRAT felt like her final form. "Rock Music" may revel in the highs of expression, but doesn't sugarcoat the intrinsic volatility: "The nerve damage is real / But it's the only way to feel something." This sentiment also works well on "I'm Afraid," where emo acoustics amplify the gravity of her marriage insecurities, as well as the self-flagellating excuse that "all this pain makes me believe I'm a better artist now." Supposing art and life are inextricable, if life is challenging, and trying your hardest is all that can be done, is this not likewise applicable to art? It's in the euphoric sparkle of "Camera" where Charli accepts that trying is enough. Her fledgling love of acting spills out with conviction, embracing the discomfort and liberation of "daring to fail and being ugly." As she reckons with whether music or film best serve her, Charli ironically sees acting as a place to "finally be totally honest" — a staple of her music, to us, at least — but also "the only way to feel like I'm not actually me." Maybe film to Charli is what Charli's music is to us: fun on the surface, yet rich in emotional depth and meaning. As expression sadly bears the expectation of perfection to avoid the "cringe" label, it's pretty radical for Charli to admit, "I don't feel embarrassed even if I suck" — and even more radical for her onscreen endeavours to make her feel that way. As BRAT sought to humanize the oft-maligned cool girl, Charli became a target for bad faith interpretations. Closer "No One Lasts Forever" distills the chronically online consensus: "I'm irresponsible and rude / I'll put the drugs in my veins." Maybe it's our collective doomscrolling addiction that leaves "SS26" widely misconstrued as doomsday prophecy, but it's Charli's rebuff to the morality mechanics of social media. "I didn't do it, even if I did / Write a really good Notes app apology," she sighs over muted guitar, a faux remorseful flirtation with trading in authenticity for a pristine public persona. Charli prevents tortured artist talk from being grating by letting us on the joke, routinely breaking the fourth wall: she footnotes kissing her friends with "I knew you'd like that" ("Rock Music"), sees acting as "looking down the barrel of a gun (fucking shoot me)" ("Camera"), and, most amusingly, cuts good-girl piety with a "Wink Wink." "Maybe I fucked your dad / Just kidding, I'm only saying that for effect," she sings-talks around the boxes women get placed in. Bubblegum synths and riffs fit for a 2000s teen film soundtrack play into its "you don't get me" angst, brushing off being misunderstood by sardonically revelling in its inevitability. What matters most is being seen by those who know what they're looking at — exactly why Charli's longstanding creative connection with Cook earns tribute on "Magic Metal Montana." Bubbly and urgent, it personifies the deep joy of their friendship; it's especially moving with the understanding that Charli hasn't always been able to share these feelings in time (i.e., BRAT's heartbreaking SOPHIE tribute "So I"). "No One Lasts Forever" finds Charli turning to Canadian icon David Cronenberg for wisdom on artistic legacy, and he directs her to what she has already uncovered by the end of Music, Fashion, Film: "As I was lying there on the sidewalk, I did not think about art at all / I thought about people." Before Cronenberg steps in, Charli recounts a pivotal realization in a Parisian girl's apartment, and I can't help but think about a comparable moment from my own Parisian bender. Lying in bed, mourning the comedown from creative highs and effervescent confidence, I felt oddly consoled when I heard "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" blaring out a distant window. It feels presumptuous inserting my experience into criticism of work as deeply personal as Music, Fashion, Film, but if anyone would understand the necessity of self-reference, it would be Charli. Sometimes all we can know is how it makes us feel.