I used to think turning twenty was supposed to feel glamorous like the movies promised. I looked forward to those road trips and messy hookups. Instead it felt like a hangover you didn’t sign up for. That’s why ‘Come of Age’ hit me so damn hard. Lola Kinsey calls it what it is: horror, not adventure. She doesn’t sugarcoat shit. She strips it bare and calls out the bullshit rules everyone pretends to follow.
The first line drags me straight back into my own head: “Can’t leave my childhood behind / I guess it’s just a state of mind.” That’s the split nobody tells you about. You’re supposed to be an adult, but your body’s still craving chaos, still chasing nights under neon instead of nine-to-five suffocation. When she spits “Life is a stupid fucking game,” I feel it in my teeth. The lyric drips with rage, eyeliner smudged from the night before.
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Lola doesn’t flinch from bitterness. “I’m holding on to yesterday / I’ll be dancing on their graves / I don’t want to come of age.” That’s not nostalgia—it’s rage with eyeliner smudged from the night before. It’s lying on the floor with your heels still on, knowing you’d rather rot in that moment than sell yourself to office lights and fake smiles. She’s telling the world to fuck off for demanding she let youth slip away.
I love how she flips the everyday into something cruel and honest. “Plans, working in buildings all night / I’m just fine under my L.E.D. lights.” She rejects careers and climbing ladders, glowing artificial, cheap, and free instead. The line “Rather lay here, with the world at my feet” simply refuses the script.
What I hear under the distortion is a girl refusing to play nice. She snarls, “They can chase the top / That’s just not for me.” Every girl who ever ghosted a guy after he bragged about his promotion knows that energy. She’s done with the performance. “No one asked what I want / When I just want to breathe.” That lyric alone feels like a fist through glass. It’s gaslighting undone. She’s reclaiming her choices and her damn time.
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Kinsey isn’t borrowing from her idols though you can hear the edges of Stevie Nicks and Linda Ronstadt in her phrasing, along with the sonic rage of Courtney Love and Avril Lavigne. She bends their freedom into something rawer, grittier. Less about being ethereal, more about being a whole fucking problem. Fleetwood Mac gave us heartbreak in satin; Lola gives us heartbreak in ripped tights and chipped polish. That’s her glow up: classic rock bones dressed in punk’s cracked lipstick.
Her debut EP draws inspiration from heartbreak, parental drama, and the cruel realities of growing up, but this title track serves as the anthem. It feels sweaty, drunk, and reckless. It’s the kind of song that makes you text your ex at 3 a.m. just to remind yourself you still can. It makes “adulting” look mid and makes defiance feel bussin’.
Lola Kinsey rips the phrase come of age apart, spits it back, and dares us to sit in the rot with her. And damn, I’ll stay here as long as the track keeps playing.
