Ballad Breakdown: Paris Paloma’s “labour” Perfectly Captures Feminine Anguish
We put in twice the emotional labor for every bit of physical labor we do, all to get brushed aside by the men in our lives. This Women’s History Month brings with it a feminist power ballad that perfectly encapsulates the rage of us, our mothers, our grandmothers, and generations beyond.
A song can range from seconds to more than 10 minutes, but every song, no matter the length, tells a story through its lyrics, instruments, and/or vocals. In Ballad Breakdown, our writers dissect your favorite songs to display the intricacy and care put into every seemingly minuscule aspect.
Written by Arundhati Ghosh
Photo courtesy of Theo Brinch
Content Warning: misogyny, implications of physical abuse, implications of sexual abuse
It is no wonder why Paris Paloma’s “labour” was as heavily anticipated by women everywhere as it was. The songstress’ transition from a mellow tone to a heavy-voiced representation of anguish, paired with bare-bones acoustic guitar beating against a work chant, form a catchy song that’s brimming with the cyclical implications of — and outright condemnation towards — the patriarchy. “labour” is only as strong as its lyrics and, luckily for feminine rage playlists everywhere, Paloma has artfully created a timeless work that finds its words balanced exquisitely between crafting a grating critique and a raw appeal for change.
The title is the first of many double entendres throughout the single: “labour” can mean both physically exerting work and the act of birthing children. The song itself begins with a member of the band emphatically letting out a “one, two –” before an acoustic guitar and Paloma’s floating vocals enter, as natural as can be. This is meant to be in-the-moment, applicable to any situation. She sings of hanging from a rope above open water, anticipating an escape from her servitude, pleading with her captor to let her go all while keeping her tone airy. It’s as she reaches the end of her first stanza, imploring that he “Let [her] go / And dive into the waves below” that her voice, alongside her lyrics, dives in, gaining a momentary depth as she emphasizes the seriousness of her situation. A metaphorical escape is supplemented by the imagery of a physical one.
Paloma paints a scene that should be picturesque, mentioning orchards and gables, a rocky mountain spring. The setting would be idyllic if not for the context of her being forced to commit to physical labor that the man she is tied to refuses to do — “Who tends the orchards? / Who fixes up the gables? / Emotional torture / From the head of your high table.” Just as the protagonist of “labour” maintains her home and its surroundings, women everywhere have always been told to keep up appearances. She is putting in the arm work, the leg work, the emotional labor, all while her husband berates her despite not putting in the effort on his part. She rhetorically asks the assumed man of the house, “Who fetches the water / From the rocky mountain spring / And walks back down again / To feel your words and their sharp sting.” He is at an advantage, standing atop her shoulders and pushing her head down as she lifts him up.
She’s had enough, as the songstress practically sighs out, to make anyone “fucking tired.” By the chorus, she is exasperated at her mistreatment, as rapid-fire percussion finds its way in. The previously docile acoustic guitar puts its foot down, beginning a hauntingly palatable rhythm as Paloma chants, fatigued, at her husband: “The capillaries in my eyes are bursting / If our love died, would that be the worst thing? / For somebody I thought was my savior / You sure make me do a whole lot of labour.” The background is interspersed with snaps and claps, evoking the feeling of working alongside other women as everyone toils, singing to pass the time and keep each other company. A spirit within the chorus ties listeners to their mothers, and their mothers before them. There is warmth in the instrumental and reliability in the lyrics: after all, haven’t we all found ourselves putting in effort that went unrecognized, unreturned, and, at worst, unappreciated?
Her voice becomes stronger as she tells the unnamed man that “the silence haunts our bed chamber / You make me do too much labour.” He never sings her praises — there is only silence. The instrumental break after this line is darkly bouncy, dull chords playing off the hollow rawness of their surroundings. Paloma’s voice cracks slightly, almost fading as she finishes exhaling “Apologies from my tongue, and never yours.” This vulnerable timbre lives on as she sings of her deepest worries: “If we had a daughter / I’d watch and could not save her / The emotional torture / From the head of your high table.” This repetition of the last two lines is important. Here, the singer emphasizes the cyclical nature of female subjugation. Her voice begins gaining true strength — a meaty grit — as she intones “She’d meet the same cruel fate / So now I’ve gotta run / So I can undo this mistake / At least I’ve gotta try.” In verses prior, Paloma’s protagonist had been wary of her fate, every day dreaming of escaping it, but it is the idea of her own daughter being subjected to the same abuse that spurs her recognition that action is necessary.
The chorus repeats, gaining vocal color with each line, before transitioning into the snippet that became TikTok-famous prior to the song’s actual release. She lists off the numerous roles women are meant to take in the lives of men (“All day, every day / Therapist, mother, maid / Nymph, then a virgin / Nurse, then a servant”). She then hits home the point that women have always been seen as the weaker sex, reliant on men and existing just to appease their every whim: “Just an appendage / Live to attend him / So that he never lifts a finger.” The unnamed, universal “him” is seen both as a dependant and looming threat — him never lifting a finger both means that he puts in no work, but also means that he won’t physically abuse her as a ramification of not fulfilling what he believes to be her duty to him. She is merely an extension of his will, with none of her own, working constantly so he does no labor at all, and so she does not get beat.
The other side of “labour” is explored in the latter half of this cry for help: “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.” As aforementioned, labor has two meanings: to work hard, and to give birth. Though women are not the only people that carry children, women have historically been boiled down to being child-bearers and child-rearers. Marital sexual assault is alluded to — her husband is implied to put his forceful sexual needs above her personal well-being, all while citing love as a reason to harm. A rising low synth supplies a contrastingly hopeful undercurrent to these lyrics, implying that what has been in the past need not live into the present.
This verse repeats itself once more, but, this time, Paloma’s voice is buoyed by dozens of schoolgirls as they chant the same lyrics behind her. They are the next generation she has so much fear for — more young girls who face an unknown future. She was like them once, and she sees her imagined daughter amongst them. As she reaches her final iteration of the chorus, the synth disappears, replaced by the prior verse repeating underneath her words. Not only is her strength held up by those that will come after her, it is put on a forward trajectory by those that came before. The songstress has turned back in on herself, but her voice is now full of steel. There is a cycle she is aware of, but she is finally prepared to break it.