On ‘Everybody Scream’, Florence + The Machine invites listeners into a world where grief becomes ritual, and womanhood takes the form of myth. This is not an album that merely plays: it possesses, pulses, and purges. In the aftermath of an ectopic pregnancy, Florence Welch turns loss into alchemy. Across twelve tracks, she reconstructs herself through folklore, fury, and transcendence - crafting a sonic spell that embraces the age-old cry of “women are witches” and reclaims it as power.

The record opens with its title track, where ethereal choirs shimmer before a scream, sharp, human, and divine, cuts through at the forty-fifth second. It’s an invocation, a sonic rebirth. The percussion rises from the silence, and ad-libs weave through the soundscape like flickering candles in a cathedral. When she sings “Extraordinary and normal all at the same time” she captures the paradox of existence itself: the holiness in the everyday, the exhaustion in the extraordinary.

What follows is ‘One of the Greats’, pairing distorted guitars with brutal honesty. “Got everything I thought I wanted and cried hungover in a hotel closet”, she admits, laying bare the emptiness that trails success. The lyrics are biting and often self-aware to the point of pain. “It must be nice to be a man and make borin’ music just because you can”, is a commentary on gendered expectations in art, delivered with equal parts venom and vulnerability. Yet amid the defiance comes tenderness: “I will let the light in / I will let some love in”. It’s a moment of surrender that feels hard-won.

The pace quickens with ‘Witch Dance’, where Welch channels a coven of voices. Breaths become percussion, laughter turns to rhythm, and the forest around her seems to awaken. “The ache, the kick, the need,” she chants, before asking the impossible: “Can I keep all this beauty forever inside?”. Living beyond its creator, ‘Witch Dance’ embodies feminine rage in a unique, haunted way - it’s alive.

From there, ‘Sympathy Magic’ expands that energy into motion. With shimmering synths and pointillistic drums, it feels like sprinting through a sunlit forest, propelled by “chewing on a feeling and spitting it out”. Her vocal control borders on the divine, switching between operatic swells and guttural cries, before the track drones out into a single, unrestrained scream - followed by light sparkles of sound.

The middle section reveals its heart. ‘Perfume and Milk’ is a moment of stillness, stripped of grandeur. A cold wind hums through a sparse guitar as she whispers, “The seasons change /the world turns.” It’s a song of acceptance. It’s gentle, fragile, and deeply human. By contrast, ‘Buckle’ carries heartbreak with pop precision, its chorus a lament for the loneliness fame can’t cure: “I made a thousand people love me / now I’m all alone”.

Then comes ‘Kraken’,  reimagining myth as self-portrait. A Kraken is a myth of a giant sea monster, appearing just off the coast of Norway, and this formidable creature of the deep becomes Welch herself: immense, misunderstood, unstoppable. “Do you see me now?” she demands, embodying a monstrous femininity that refuses invisibility. She isn’t to be ignored. This leads seamlessly into ‘The Old Religion’, a ritualistic anthem of feminine rage. Over primordial drums and hushed synths, she confesses, “And I’m powerless, oh, don’t remind me”, reclaiming that very power in the act of singing it aloud. The track feels like a pinnacle: embodying how women are often seen as ‘witches’ and embracing that aesthetic through its sound.

The latter tracks feel like closing chapters in a spellbook. ‘Drink Deep’ conjures medieval imagery and fairytale allusions, “Cut gold to thread with their teeth”, weaving tales of endurance into melody - a nod to the story of Rumpelstiltskin, a character who can spin straw into gold. ‘Music by Men’ slows the pace, offering reflection over a plain guitar line. It’s one of the more unembellished tracks, but it feels purposeful. “Slide down in my seat so as not to threaten you,” she murmurs, confronting the ways women shrink themselves to survive. Then, the weary plea: “Let me put out a record and have it not ruin my life”. It’s a raw line, and perhaps the truest on the record.

As the album nears its end, ‘You Can Have It All’ breaks open in catharsis. “You can have it all,” she belts, a cry that sounds less like defeat and more like freedom. The percussion feels like it’s clawing at the walls of its own body, desperate to break through. And then, finally, ‘And Love’ offers the simplest incantation: “Peace is coming”. Repeated again and again, it feels like a sigh of relief, a manifestation. It’s a way of breathing out what has happened, releasing it, and letting go of any rage held: she’s breaking free.

‘Everybody Scream’ is Florence + The Machine at their most elemental and fearless. It’s an album that howls in the face of silence - turning grief into rhythm and womanhood into myth. Through screams, whisper,s and chants, Florence Welch reclaims the witch not as a figure of fear, but of power: a woman who feels everything, and dares to sing it.

The production balances ferocity with fragility, weaving together pounding drums & moments of unnerving stillness. It’s in these stark contrasts that the album finds its power, revealing beauty in breaking and strength in surrender. The music doesn’t just tell a story; it conjures one, inviting listeners into a world where pain can become poetry. In the end, her scream is not of terror, but of resurrection with a sound that says, I survived and I’m still singing.

Anna Louise Jones

@annalouiseachives

Image: ‘Everybody Scream’ Official Album Cover

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