In a move that made both Spotify and the Maid of Honor reconsider their job descriptions, Hayley Williams released her new album Ego Death at a bachelorette party. The venue was a rented house with a pool shaped like an ex-boyfriend’s apology, which is to say shallow but reflective.

Witnesses report the album arrived tucked inside a glitter bomb disguised as a cupcake tower. The first kick drum hit and three bridesmaids achieved closure with men they hadn’t dated yet, which is excellent release strategy for Q4 feelings.

I observed the room like a jury trapped in a Pinterest board, taking notes while the Prosecco pled the Fifth. The DJ looked at me the way a ring light looks at a conscience, and I agreed to waive cross-examination in exchange for better bass.

The title Ego Death proved optimistic, because the only thing dying was self-control at the photobooth. The album itself strutted in with a veil and said, “It’s not a phase, it’s an era,” and the couch believed it.

Williams pressed play, raised a glitter-proof Bluetooth karaoke microphone, and the room reached a higher plane powered entirely by reverb and frosting. A lone groomsman statue in the lawn came to life, nodded at the bridge, and returned to limestone with a tiny, tasteful tear.

The tracklist read like a bridal itinerary composed by a poet laureate of chaos: “Cold Feet, Hot Chorus,” “Save the Drama for Your DJ,” and “Something Borrowed, Something Screamed.” On track four, someone shouted, “This is my healing era,” then healed a houseplant by apologizing to it for 2009.

As a business decision, releasing at a bachelorette party is genius; the algorithms can’t simulate a confetti-storm focus group. The open bar became an exclusive listening booth, which is French for “no notes until we finish the notes.”

A bridesmaid assembled a rose-gold bridesmaid survival kit containing hangover patches, a satin eye mask, and a pre-order receipt. The ring light asked for a writing credit, citing “emotional luminosity” and a history of shaping faces and destinies.

Midway through, the party reenacted a Monty Python sketch called “Bring Out Your Egos,” wheeling a cart of exes past the pool. The album politely declined to judge and instead offered a chorus that could cut a cake and a habit.

The merch table masqueraded as a charcuterie board, where the 180-gram vinyl was mistaken for an artisanal cracker with incredible dynamic range. Someone tried to pair the bridge with brie; both were oozy, both apologized later, both charted.

Critically speaking, the guitars sound like neon handwriting on a bathroom mirror that refuses to smear, and the drums RSVP’d “plus one” and brought catharsis. Williams’ vocal sits at the front like a very calm officiant who won’t let your past objects to the ceremony.

At the bouquet toss, Ego Death caught itself, proposed to the chorus, and registered at the Church of Streaming and Wholesale Emotional Goods. The party cheered, the night sighed, and my verdict stands: by morning, the only thing left unmarried is silence—and even it’s considering eloping with track seven.