In the pantheon of modern pop divas, Kim Petras is one of the major talents I’ve struggled most to get on her wavelength. The better way of putting it is that she’s one of the few who transcends certain barriers that make me think I should like her more. It’s in the bombastic production and playful eroticism. Her Halloween album is a genuine delight, and yet her collective work has been largely hit and miss. Even now, I have finished “Detour” and think that it’s a pretty good record that’s overshadowed by the smackdab intensity of Slayyyter. It’s good, but will she ever reach a greater potential?
In the middle of these party anthems is one song that caught me off guard to the point that I forced myself to listen closely. Following a journey through tales of a nightclub socialite was a Frost Children beat over a narrative about… architecture.
I think to myself about whether the album is about to become an abstract concept album about city life. Why is she becoming emotional while singing the motif, “They really ruined it.” The subversiveness is perfect dance-pop material, allowing melancholic harmonies to dig deep and pull out something autobiographical. Midway through 2026, this is arguably the most innovative moment of Top 40-leaning hooks that I’ve heard. I have never seen this building, and yet by the closing chords, I feel like I have this deep emotional connection. This is what great songwriting is about… recontextualizing the familiar into something new.
My initial thought was to assume “Brutalist” was written in response to the Brady Corbett film from last year. The symbolism is not terribly different, especially as actor Adrien Brody performed monologues about how the brutalist style he catered to becomes self-expression for his own endurance. Wars and famine could overtake the land, but his buildings would survive any tragedy. Underneath the tough exterior is a passion shining bright.
Even if I firmly believe the correlation is not there, it’s hard not to think of how brutalist architecture fits into the song. Petras’ father is an architect who would drive her around, showing her various buildings that he liked. Key among these sights was a building across the street from her doctor's appointments that she thought was beautiful. Without digging too far into specifics, she creates an innocent view of the world. This is an appreciation for something without its sense of history or depth of architectural jargon. It’s a child admiring a structure because it symbolizes something unexplained to her. Maybe it’s just a reminder of where her transition journey started, but it could be something much deeper than that.
The interpretive ambiguity allows the song to contrast with its greater intent. While other symbolism can be drawn into the destruction of a building, it’s clear that Petras finds kinship as it relates to her transgender identity. At one point, she recalls turning feminine by saying, “I guess I ruined it.” The line carries many interpretations, both for the singer and her audience. From a distance, it comments on the transphobic rhetoric of children’s bodies being manipulated against their will. On a deeper level, it’s a dysphoric cry of doubt and regret, less so that they aren’t trans than that they might not be happy or connected to people who used to love them in their lives. Without emphasis on the next chapter of Petras' journey, this is a story of the early years where things are uncertain, and the world seems so hostile.
What elevates this as being more than a song about dysphoria and isolation is the relationship she shares with her father. Even if there are suggestions that there were less-than-pleasant trips to this area (such as cutting hair), it’s still a chance to bond with her father. This connection beyond gender identity comes with these ritual trips. Even if greater details are just as ambiguous as the titular building, it helps to paint the direct passions as a child. She wants to be loved, and it’s clear that she sees the changing landscape combatting at every turn.
The song hits me hard for several reasons. On the surface, there is something bittersweet about seeing your city change over time. My metaphorical brutalist building is an old bookstore downtown that was so beloved that it led Ray Bradbury (yes, him) to write an essay defending it. I was fortunate enough to have been in high school during its final years and spent a few days down there enjoying its aisles of obscure literature that I’m not sure any physical bookstore carries anymore. It was only a building, yes, but it had a whole community and history that far exceeded what it was replaced by. Long story short, downtown went from a sprawling art community to one overrun with housing complexes and high-end boutiques. If there’s a difference between Petras and I, it’s that she’s more entranced by the exterior of this place, whereas I have fonder memories of being inside.
That may be why I choose to read exterior details into what “Brutalist” means. The decision to make old buildings into housing complexes and boutiques is a sign of capitalism and a city losing its identity. More specifically, it raises the cost of living and recontextualizes the type of people they seek to attract. Add in that the more capitalist political party – conservatives – is currently staging a transgender genocide, and it’s easy to see another way they ruined it. Even if the doctor is a good person, there’s a chance that the human touch Petras found there as a child also disappeared as more eyes were placed upon her, unwilling to listen or care.
This is why it’s hard for me not to get teary-eyed at the way she uses repetition. There’s the immediately recognizable “ruined it” motif that connects her to the building. There’s no nuance, just a blank statement clearly full of anger. It’s a helpless kind that she can’t do anything about. Things are out of her control, and it makes the sadness overwhelming as she moves from the interpretive emotions into more literal acts that include “they bulldozered it.” The forceful language cuts deeper, allowing reality to set in with violent undertones that make it sound invasive, as if Petras is losing part of herself.
Some things are to be expected going into the lyrics. Petras has thrived in the wake of her early days. She became the first openly trans artist to win a Grammy, and despite various setbacks in her career, she continues to produce music. “Detour” is arguably one of her most accessible records to date. Any suggestion that the bittersweet demise of the brutalist architecture comes not as an act of detransitioning, but more introspection of what it means to be alive in a world that quite literally doesn’t want you. There’s something else, which she’d describe as ugly, that will replace you and make your existence disappear altogether.
The metaphor could’ve been about personal regret, but it’s more a story of endurance. Without this song, that building would be lost to time. Instead, it’s a reflection on how our environments shape us, becoming one with how we evolve as a person. In the wake of oppression, there is a need to not let everything disappear. The contrast of the physical with the metaphysical allows for legacy to be determined as something more. It can be judged by others, but it’s ultimately up to us to accept ideas as holding value. Things will inevitably change. What we hold onto matters only to us.
Despite “Detour” being an album that feels very much rooted in Southern California bacchanalia, I doubt this song is meant to be political in an American sense. Petras grew up in Germany, and given that this is likely in her youth during the late 90s and early 00s, it was a less accepting time. Information wasn’t as available publicly, and certain decisions carried bigger risks. Even if she had a loving family, I’m sure she grew up with the doubt she sings about as people criticized her personal decisions. Again, the building may have symbolized one of the few things in her life that brought comfortable reliability. With this said, it’s very easy to understand, in its simplicity, the universality of the language as it applies to anyone who either loves architecture or has experienced gender dysphoria (or both).
Despite having hundreds of songs that have personally moved me so far this year, “Brutalist” stands out above the rest for its sheer creativity and honesty. I love the emotionality with which she sings without adding too much inflection. Its simple nature makes it feel childlike, while the repetition adds traces of rebellious frustration often found in punk music. This is a confrontational song without having to yell. There’s no need to when the somber tone in her voice clashes with the upbeat production that suggests this is as much a dirge as it is a procession. Life moves on. Nothing lasts forever. We are ever-changing creatures. Innocence is lost. We can call back to those things, but certain lanes will never return.
That is what makes the nostalgic idea of this song so powerful. At first blush, this is a ridiculous subject for a pop song, let alone one where Petras bares her soul. It can be unbearable, but there’s also catharsis in not letting these ideas ruminate in your heart. Sharing allows you to feel less alone. Much like the building, doctor, father, and herself, these symbols are what give life meaning. It’s important to not let anybody ruin it.
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