Older - Lizzy McAlpine

Lizzy McAlpine’s Older is the kind of album that quietly ruins you. Not in a flashy or dramatic way, but in the kind that sneaks up while you’re brushing your teeth and suddenly remembering something you thought you’d moved past. It’s theater kid heartbreak. It’s looking out the rain covered car window like you’re in a music video, even though you’re just sitting in traffic on a Tuesday.

When I saw her live, the album made more sense. It hit different. Lizzy doesn’t talk much on stage. She kind of just walks out, nods, and starts singing. But every note feels like it has been sitting in her chest for months. She lets the songs speak for her, and they do. Everyone in the crowd felt it too. You could hear people cry during the quiet parts.

From the opening track, “The Elevator,” she sets the tone. It’s hushed and uneasy, like she’s bracing for impact. The song ends with this strange sound. maybe a gun cocking, maybe a door slamming shut, and you feel yourself drop into the story. It doesn’t ease you in. You’re just in it.

“Come Down Soon” feels like the rush of a new crush. It’s messy, quick, and already kind of doomed. She’s describing this moment of falling in love while knowing she probably shouldn’t. There’s cold air, music playing, and a sweetness that already feels like it’s slipping. It’s romantic in the way that makes you nervous.

By “Like It Tends To Do,” things are starting to shift. The love that once felt huge and cinematic now feels worn out. There’s distance and quiet disappointment. The outro is just this eerie little instrumental moment that somehow says more than the lyrics. It makes you sit with it.

“Movie Star” is stripped down to just guitar and voice. It’s about being adored but not really seen. She keeps singing “over and over” and it lands like a punch every time. There’s so much sadness tucked into the spaces between lines. You can hear her trying to grow while someone else wants her to stay the same.

“All Falls Down” is where the weight really hits. The production builds and builds, the horns, saxophone, the whole thing… but the lyrics are about unraveling. She sings about being 23 and playing sold-out shows, but feeling empty anyway. You can hear her trying to convince herself she’s fine. The explosion at the end feels like a breakdown in disguise.

“Staying” is soft and numb. She has already decided to leave, but she’s still there, physically. It’s quiet in a way that makes your stomach hurt. The line “How can you look so peaceful when you know I’m gonna leave?” stopped me in my tracks.

“I Guess” comes right after and somehow hurts even more. It’s about pretending something still works when it doesn’t. She’s lying to him, lying to herself, just trying to hold it together. You can feel her clinging to this person, even as everything starts to fall apart.

Then “Drunk, Running” hits and changes the shape of the album. This isn’t just about a breakup anymore. It’s about addiction and co-dependence and self-sabotage. The line “Say I love you and then drink it backwards” is one of the most haunting things I’ve ever heard. She knows exactly what she’s doing, and that makes it worse.

“Broken Glass” is sharp and terrifying. It sounds like she’s narrating a panic attack in real time. Her voice is steady, but the production swells and cracks around her. There’s so much detail, but it never feels overthought. It just feels real.

“You Forced Me To” is one of the most theatrical songs here. It plays like a final monologue. The doubled vocals and heavy pauses make it feel like she’s saying things she has never been able to say before. It’s careful and devastating. Every lyric lands hard.

The title track, “Older,” feels like a sigh. She’s grieving something she can’t name. Her childhood, her timeline, maybe the version of herself she thought she’d become. The layering of her voice and the way the piano winds through the song makes it feel like she’s circling the drain, hoping for something to grab onto.

“Better Than This” is a turning point. It’s not loud or confident, but it’s honest. She’s sitting with the fact that she deserves more, even if it hurts. It sounds like a letter to herself, the kind you don’t send but keep folded in your pocket for a long time.

“March” is about her dad. You can feel the loss. She’s not trying to make sense of it, she’s just letting it live on the page. There’s something about the way she sings “you were just here” that absolutely breaks me. It’s simple and it lingers.

Then “Vortex” closes the album with this long, spiraling descent. It starts quiet and then builds into a storm. She’s watching herself lose it all and still trying to hold on. The final line, “Someday you’ll come back, and I’ll say no,” doesn’t sound triumphant. It sounds tired. But there’s power in it.

Older isn’t just a breakup album. It’s about surviving something that never had a clean ending. It’s about being loved badly and wondering what that means for the rest of your life. It’s about grief and timing and letting go of what you thought your future would look like. There’s no big resolution. No neat arc. Just someone trying to be honest and figure it out in real time.

It’s warm and cold at the same time. It’s sharp and quiet. And it’s her best work yet.

Don’t throw it on in the background. Let it play all the way through. Let it stay with you. It will.