On Negative Spaces, Poppy sounded like an artist who had finally locked into a form that could contain all her extremes. Empty Hands proves she’s not interested in standing still once she gets comfortable. Instead, she pushes further into the red, sharpening the tension between pop discipline and metallic violence until it sparks. It’s heavier, meaner and more self-assured, capturing an artist who knows exactly where her power lies and isn’t afraid to lean on it hard.
Jordan Fish’s return as producer once again anchors the album, but their partnership feels more balanced this time around. Where earlier collaborations occasionally risked smoothing over Poppy’s rough edges, Empty Hands lets them cut through. The guitars hit harder, the synths feel more purposeful, and the space between chaos and clarity is better managed. Tracks like Bruised Sky showcase this equilibrium perfectly, pairing scorched-earth breakdowns with a melodic lift that feels earned rather than cosmetic, while Guardian glows with a kind of towering pop grandeur without ever dulling its bite.
The album thrives on contrast, but it never feels scattered. Across its 13 tracks, Empty Hands maintains momentum, shifting gears without losing cohesion. Opener Public Domain throws listeners straight into the deep end, its industrial churn and sneering, robotic delivery recalling Poppy’s more confrontational instincts, even if it slightly overplays its hand. Elsewhere, her personality cuts through more cleanly, especially when theatricality and aggression are allowed to coexist rather than compete.
It’s the heavier moments that leave the deepest marks. Dying To Forget is punishing and relentless, its serrated riffs matched by vocal performances that sound genuinely unhinged, while the title track closes the album in spectacularly ugly fashion, stripping away melody in favour of pure hostility. These aren’t novelty screams or genre tourism; they feel fully inhabited, underlining how far Poppy has travelled from her internet-pop origins.
Still, Empty Hands isn’t just about brute force. Poppy’s clean vocals remain one of her greatest assets, cutting through the noise with startling warmth and control. When the choruses land, they land big, and when the album falters, it’s usually when the maximalism tips from expansive into overcrowded. Thankfully, those moments are brief and outweighed by the record’s sheer conviction.
Ultimately, Empty Hands sounds like an artist fully in command of her chaos. Poppy isn’t dabbling in metal anymore, nor is she bending herself to fit it. She’s reshaping it around her own instincts, rage and pop sensibility, and doing so with increasing confidence. When she finds something that truly ignites her, as she does here, the results are blistering.
