In a Country in Crisis, Paris Paloma Unites Women one concert at a time
This was an escape plan,
carefully timed it
so let me go
and dive into the waves below
The day was January 20, 2025. As temperatures in Washington fell near zero, tech oligarchs, career politicians, conservative think tankers, and a lone country singer gathered inside the Capitol Building. All laughed and cheered at what was to come. Once the clock struck noon, everyone—in the building, and in the country—held their breaths as a 78-year-old man held his right hand up and pledged to protect the United States of America. Not even a sunset passed before his promises proved themselves to be irreversibly destructive. A quarter of the country erupted in applause, while the rest of us, myself included, sighed in perceived defeat.
Silence enveloped our people like a fog that never lifts. Our city, Nashville, remained a circle of silent, dauntless wishes surrounded by a sea of blood.
Though I’d long let go of my breath, I still found it difficult at times to catch it. I, along with countless other women, could barely speak as we watched history unfold in reverse. It’s easy to forget how to speak when one is struggling to breathe.
Then, on March 5, 2025, hope flew into Music City, bearing the name Paris Paloma. Hailing all the way from Britain, Paloma first gained traction on TikTok, where her dark, rich alto voice floated through her feminist anthem “Labour.” And with that, I realize many may stop reading here. Many may pass her up as another viral trend, that lives and dies all in a day. Many may hear the name TikTok and turn their noses, as if any artist that gains recognition through the platform is somehow inferior. Many may read the word “feminist” and avert their eyes to more blissful readings. But I beg to differ. And I beg you to stay, and read of the miracle she unfolded that cold, Wednesday Nashville night.
I’d heard of the Brooklyn Bowl before, but had never been myself. I walked into a surprisingly quaint but lively venue. No one bothered to search my bags or pockets, a first for me going to a concert. I walked down a long hallway, past bowling events, brick walls lined with posters of past and future performers. Of the posters hung, only Paris Paloma’s bore the words “sold out.” As I continued my walk to the stage, I could feel in my bones something magical was about to happen. And as I reached the crowd that had already packed themselves together like sardines, I knew despite the lack of security at the doors that there was no reason to fear for my safety. Everyone in attendance was warm, welcoming, and just as excited as I was for what was to come. Many wore costumes similar to Paloma’s aesthetic, fairy wings and leaf halos. It was the first concert I’d ever attended where the audience consisted overwhelmingly of women and nonbinary people. The few men I could see in attendance were there to accompany their partners or children. My sense of ease increased twofold.
After the opening act of Sara Julia, a folk-pop sister duo from Amsterdam, the crowd roared when the lights darkened and Paloma took the stage. Adorned in black pants and a white rose top, her voice floated even brighter and higher in person; recordings simply don’t do her voice justice. She opened with “my mind (now),” from her debut album Cacaphony, where her voice lilted over prerecorded harmonizations:
I knew you had a temper,
but I guess I thought I was immune
I felt it as you severed my mind
tore it all the way through
And I was strawberry picking
you were gathering ammunition to use
and the shrapnel digs in,
my mind has not been silent since you
I could feel her singing not just from her heart, but every woman’s heart in the venue. I squeezed into a small vacancy on the walkway, ensuring space behind me remained for those to pass by. Women my age sang along to my left, while a man stood silently, in what I could only hope was solidarity, to my right. The truth still stands: I’d never felt safer at a concert venue, places notorious for violence against women. Here, Paris Paloma didn’t hide it, she openly sang of its destruction through many of her songs. Before her title “last woman on earth,”
she spoke of herself not feeling safe to walk alone at night, answered with the cheers of sympathy from the crowd. The man next to me continued his silence; I could only hope her words resonated with him. And it was then I realized Paloma wasn’t just performing, she was conducting. All of us—men, women, nonbinary people alike—were treading rough waters, wakes of misogyny, and together we were the call and answer in her symphony. “Nothing is more powerful than community,” she preached to us, “especially in times like this, in this country.” And what better a place to foster a community, than through conducting her own cacaphony?
Throughout the concert, Paloma’s voice remained deceptively lighthearted. Like a woodland fairy, she sang over tunes “hunter,” “as good as reason,” “the fruits,” “bones on the beach,” “escape pod,” and more. Without closely listening, one could easily assume her simply telling gentle stories, but each song punched with its words: a push to form community among women, a plea for help, a dream for a better place, a floodlight on physical abuse. The almost ghostly nature of her songs lingers long after the last note. Each lyric buried itself deep within my bones, and despite being dressed in a parka, I found myself shivering.
The finale came with her most famous song, “labour,” written over two years before the results of the November 5, 2024 election. Much like classical composers, Paloma saved her strongest punch for the last minutes. Hailed as a feminist anthem, “labour” erupted the crowd with a second wind of screaming and singing. Screaming along, I realized perhaps the two are one in the same.
All day every day
therapist, mother, maid
nymph, then a virgin
nurse, then a servant
just an appendage
live to attend him
so that he never lifts a finger
24/7 baby machine
so he can live out
his picket fence dreams
it’s not an act of love if you make her
you make me do too much labour
In each verse, I could hear what I’d never heard. The gentle yodel my grandmother would use to beckon my
mother home. The footsteps of my great-grandparents, demanding equality. The fastening of my great-grandmother’s scarf, as she walked out her family’s door to go vote for the first time at 39 years of age. The sound of a pen, writing Title IX into law, and the sound of another unwriting Roe v. Wade. My blood boiled with an ancestral rage and determination I’d never fully grasped before.
Even after the song finished, and Paloma left the stage, I realized she never put down her baton. Of all the messages woven into sound that night, “Labour” proved itself the strongest, most deceitful of them all. We never finish our labour, just like she will have another show to conduct. For us, the curtains never close. We can’t put down our womanhood at the end of the day. We carry it with us, and with that, we carry the power of the dozens of generations before us, fighting for equality. Our power lies in our art, our voices, and our community.
Being a part of Paris Paloma’s symphony brought to light the work for our rights has never been laid to rest, and the fight continues with our power. If we are to stop this administration from erasing our footsteps, breaking our pens, muting our words, we have to use our voices.
I’ve found mine. Will you find yours?
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Geneviève graduated from MTSU class of 2021 with a major in Music Composition and a minor in Criminal Justice. She currently works in music industry royalties. Geneviève has played the cello for 17 years and applies her compositional studies to the role it plays in contemporary music. Outside of work, she is a painter and published author.
