Kesha - . (Period)
“God I Feel Good,
It’s About Time”.
If you’re in your 30s or beyond, chances are you vividly remember 2010. It was a strange, transitional year — the world was slowly crawling out of a global crisis, uncertainty loomed large, and everything felt, well, off. But amid the chaos, we had Kesha. Bursting through our speakers with her neon robot-vocals and cartoonish party-girl persona, she gave us wild, carefree hits like “TiK ToK” and “Your Love Is My Drug” that helped us forget, even just for three minutes, that everything around us was falling apart.
Now, fifteen years later, it feels like we’ve come full circle. The world is once again a mess — politically, socially, existentially — and here comes Kesha, releasing an album titled “.” (hereafter referred to as Period), inviting us once more into a dancefloor of delirium. But things are different now. The kids who screamed those early Kesha anthems are in their 30s, maybe even 40s. We’ve all been through something. And so has she.
Period is Kesha’s first independent release — she is absolutely free from Kemosabe Records and the man whose name I won’t mention here. She felt it was time for a rebirth, and she was damn right. When the lawsuits began — that whole terrible, painful story — it made complete sense that Kesha distanced herself from her messy, party-girl persona and started making something radically different. During that time, she gave us the absolute masterpiece “Praying” — a song so monumental it felt like it closed the chapter entirely. It's a little tragic that such a vile man ended up being the subject of such a great song.
It was also remarkable to see what she did next with Gag Order — a melancholic, experimental detour that, to me, remains her most powerful conceptual album to date. But just because the original Kesha — the wild, unfiltered party girl — was once a label-constructed persona, doesn’t mean that, now free, she can’t embrace that energy again. And maybe that’s the whole point of Period: she’s reclaiming what was always hers — her identity.
The record opens with “Freedom,” a six-minute stunner that starts quietly and then shifts structure halfway through. It’s unexpectedly inspiring — something you wouldn’t expect from an album like this — and at times even sonically reminiscent of Jessie Ware: elegant, layered, and danceable. Then we dive into “Joyride,” arguably one of the album’s highlights, where Kesha boldly interpolates a kind of electro-polka with playful accordion flourishes. I’ve always supported this weird, fresh, and slightly ridiculous song — it just works.
Even “Yippee-Ki-Yay” — a somewhat silly, country-tinged track that felt flat as a single — makes more sense within the album’s flow. The first half of Period carries a distinct sense of vibe, color, and charm. It’s engaging, even if a little rough around the edges.
By the album’s midpoint, the energy starts to dip — things get repetitive and noticeably less creative. Take “The One,” for example: generic in every sense, echoing the worst moments of late-era Panic! At The Disco, weighed down by a grating robotic vocal effect in the final stretch. “Boy Crazy” misfires completely. “Glow” and “Too Hard” are listenable, sure — but ultimately feel uninspired.
Luckily, the closing track “Cathedral” is a strong one — a soft, slightly balladic piece that proves just how well Kesha handles stillness when she chooses to.
Period is an ode to 2010 — music that feels familiar, a little silly, even dated — and that’s entirely the point. Kesha isn’t chasing trends or trying to make Brat 2.0. She already did that more than a decade ago. This is just her: honest, unpolished, a little chaotic. And while parts of it falter, the sincerity is undeniable. You might not fall in love with every song, but it’s hard to walk away with any real bitterness either.
At its core, Period feels like a soft reboot — a statement of freedom from an artist who once defined a whole era of carefree rebellion, and now wants to do it again, but on her own terms. And maybe that’s enough. In a world that keeps spiraling, there’s something oddly comforting about hearing that voice again — older, wiser, but still unafraid to be corny and have fun. We’re not the same anymore. Neither is Kesha. But for 38 minutes, she reminds us how to let go — just a little.
6.9/10
