Review: Rachel Chinouriri – I Think I Spoke Too Soon
Rachel Chinouriri’s debut album, What a Devastating Turn of Events, announced its concerns plainly: this was a record about grief, about the sudden arrival of the worst thing, delivered in the wry, self-deprecating register of someone processing pain through wit.
Released in 2024, it drew on Y2K indie rock and alt-pop with a directness that felt unguarded and entirely her own, the South London singer building emotional arguments from the kind of specific, embarrassing detail that makes a song feel like a conversation with someone who really gets it.
The follow-up is a different creature, and deliberately so. I Think I Spoke Too Soon is denser, shinier and considerably more interested in the dancefloor, its palette expanded from guitar-led indie into synth-pop, disco undertones and production that occasionally channels Phil Collins-era drum breaks alongside Santigold-inflected indie-funk.
The shift suits the material. Where the debut processed acute heartbreak from something approaching a standstill, this record is about the kind of unhappiness that keeps moving — the gap between looking great and feeling terrible, the realisation that the party is both a genuine source of joy and a way of not thinking about things you probably need to think about.
That tension is established immediately on opener “One Song Away From Crying,” which finds Chinouriri noting with cheerful despair that she’s never looked better and never felt worse. It’s a slightly cautious opening in a way that suits a revelation happening in a club bathroom rather than anywhere quiet, but the record quickly finds its footing.
The middle of the album is where Chinouriri is most fully herself. “AAAHHH!!!” is genuinely joyful, its indie jangling and rubbery basslines carrying a crush-stricken babble that collapses into wordless sounds when lovesickness overtakes language entirely.
“I’m a Star” has the energy of someone grabbing the mic they weren’t supposed to touch, all tambourine rattles and theatrical talk-singing and a level of cheerful self-delusion that is extremely funny and somehow also emotionally true. “Broken Chair” is the record’s most immediate hook, its trumpet-inflected synth line and cowbell drums landing as one of the most purely enjoyable moments she has committed to record.
The album’s production is occasionally its own obstacle. A few tracks in the opening stretch feel over-polished in ways that sand down the personality usually so audible in Chinouriri’s voice, and the sheen that works on the dancier tracks can sit uneasily against the rawer moments. But these are passing notes against a record that is, on the whole, confident and emotionally intelligent. Notably, the closing tracks pull back toward her rock instincts and land with more heft for the contrast.
What makes Chinouriri worth following closely, through debut and second album and whatever comes next, is not simply that she is relatable — though she is, almost painfully so — but that her instinct for the precise emotional note, the specific detail that unlocks a feeling you didn’t know you were carrying, remains razor-sharp regardless of the production context surrounding it. With this latest release, she shows how she keeps getting better at the thing she was already good at.
