Mon Laferte just released Femme Fatale, her ninth studio album and a full-throated plunge into the archetype she’s been circling for years. The Chilean-born, Mexico-based artist has never stayed in one lane: early days fronting metal bands gave way to rockabilly swagger and folk-rooted songcraft, culminating in the shape-shifting experimentation of 2023’s Autopoiética. This time, she steps into smoky jazz phrasing and big-band swing, channeling the kind of high-drama vulnerability that defined cabaret icons. Having literally played Sally Bowles onstage in Mexico City earlier this year, Laferte now turns that theatricality inward, dissecting love’s wreckage and the thrill of self-destruction with unflinching precision.
The record moves between languid torch songs and sudden bursts of chaos. The title track lays out the blueprint: brushed drums, upright bass, and Laferte’s voice gliding from hushed confession to guttural bite as she sings about finally accepting the “femme fatale” label after years of searching. ‘Otra Noche de Llorar’ packages relentless grief in a deceptively bouncy retro arrangement, her vocals stretching until they nearly snap. Mid-album highlight ‘1:30’ abandons melody entirely for a free-jazz spoken-word spiral with piano stabs punctuating raw memories. Even the quieter ballads like the eerie ‘Mi Hombre’ or the glass-breaking terror in ‘El Gran Señor’, refuse to stay polite.
The back half finds release. ‘La Tirana’, a duet with Nathy Peluso, flips early despair into a cha-cha-chá-fueled party, reclaiming heartbreak as something worth dancing through. Closer ‘Vida Normal’ arrives with swinging horns and a hard-won calm: Laferte stares at her reflection, sees her mother, and vows to quit smoking, drop the persona, and chase something ordinary, yet still “extremely” hers.
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