Florence & the Machine's Royal Return
Written by Natalie Melendez
Graphic by Rebekah Witt
Five years after the release of their fourth studio album, High as Hope, indie rock band Florence and the Machine have emerged with new single “King” and an accompanying music video directed by Autumn de Wilde, in which frontwoman Florence Welch battles between the concept of womanhood and the demands of her artistic career.
Welch released the following statement upon the single’s debut:
“As an artist, I never actually thought about my gender that much. I just got on with it. I was as good as the men and I just went out there and matched them every time. But now, thinking about being a woman in my thirties and the future, I suddenly feel this tearing of my identity and my desires. That to be a performer, but also to want a family might not be as simple for me as it is for my male counterparts. I had modeled myself almost exclusively on male performers, and for the first time I felt a wall come down between me and my idols as I have to make decisions they did not.”
For Welch and many other female artists, being a musician means walking a fine line between the societal expectations of womanhood and a world-renowned performer. “We argue in the kitchen about whether to have children / About the world ending and the scale of my ambition,” Welch sings to her lover, her tone blunt and without hesitation. Dressed in a deep magenta cloak and fuschia pink dress, she carries herself with splendor. A lighthearted melody crescendos with anticipation, and just before he’s given the chance to retaliate, Welch gracefully snaps her lover’s neck with bare hands—a man beheaded by the prowess of femininity.
At its core, the track is Welch’s royal declaration: “I am no mother, I am no bride, I am king.” She has needs outside of what her appearance and gender suggest, and what she needs is for the world to let her be. To accept her role as a woman would mean relinquishing her personal goals and desires. It would mean giving up the spontaneous and mournful experiences that form the basis of her art. “I need my golden crown of sorrow, my bloody sword to swing / I need my empty halls to echo with grand self-mythology,” she proclaims alongside a grand orchestral-rock beat, expressing a hunger for the recklessness of a life unbound from monotony.
Then, a moment of silence. The slightest bit of contemplative stillness before the release of a God-like belt—its build-up reminiscent of a bubbling fissure on the brink of explosion, it’s delivery a cathartic release from the preconceived notions of womanhood. The world is watching now, mercilessly caught in a wave of fiery red passion. Welch refuses to compromise the trajectory of her career with the chains of expectation, choosing instead to live as royally as a king—unbothered and unquestioned, yet powerful, feared, and respected. Now, Welch runs freely through the halls of an abandoned open-aired structure. It seems as if, by killing her lover, she has also killed off society’s vision for her.
“I was never satisfied, it never let me go / Just dragged me by my hair and back on with the show,” Welch sings at the end, right before she demonically consumes the essence of her former lover and fully embraces a new, ferocious femininity.