It's her face now, but the voice is the same. A pop ballad that runs for 3 minutes and 46 seconds is a form of verse, often a narrative set to music, that few professionals in the industry can ever fully master or dare to comprehend. Among those who do, even fewer share their secret: it's always the same voice.
Not like in the movie business, where you already know the plot. Not like in the police business, where you already know the victim. Here, the song structure is built around a single melting core, overboard with melodrama and devoid of remorse, overlayed with percussion and strings to drown out the inconsistencies in the vocal range: it's not so much about how realistic it sounds, but more and completely, exclusively, about how realistic it makes you feel. It's not punk, even though a certain number of us is clearly dying for it to be. It's not pop, either.
The carefree message and the dark, moody temper are undercover for the true nature of the beast, if only it turned out to be a breathing, living organism. It exists, and yet it does not breathe. It reproduces, yet it does not bear fruit. It evolves, but it does not mutate. There is only one.