On Women in Music and 2000s Nostalgia: When Will the Hunt End?
- Chiara Guastella
- Apr 12
- 5 min read
“We want the old Gaga back.” “The new Britney.” “Pop music isn’t what it used to be.” As early 2000s trends resurface, many people have tried to recreate the same feeling of wonder and nostalgia that had populated the walls of their childhood bedrooms, but to no avail. However, there have been many times throughout these past five years where the emergence of fresh, brilliant popstar girls has sparked a wave of projection. This longing is often imposed on these young artists, who find themselves compared to hypothetical “counterparts," like Tyla to Rihanna, or Tate McRae to Britney Spears. Is this impulse to deny young stars their own spotlight, casting them in their predecessors’ shadows to satisfy society’s nostalgic craving, ultimately harmful to the musical integrity of both past and present artists?
The 2000s and 2010s were an innovative time for women in music, birthing the most iconic pop girls of our era: Britney Spears, Beyoncé, Lady Gaga, Taylor Swift, Rihanna, Christina Aguilera, Avril Lavigne, etc. Accompanying the better part of our youth with their catchy melodies, heavy synths, and flashy visuals, their music quickly became a staple of many people's teen years. It's a time many of us remember as peaceful: when technology wasn't quite there yet, and we were finding solace in logging onto YouTube and watching the strikingly controversial music video for Lady Gaga's "Bad Romance."
In the years of The Fame Monster, Born This Way, and ARTPOP, with her out-of-the-box aesthetics and wildly liberal messages, Gaga was highly controversial to the public. However, with the release of her 2016 album, Joanne, Gaga received much criticism for having shed the eccentric wigs and outrageous outfits, with a public outcry of "We want the old Gaga back."
Much like the phenomenon currently happening to these new artists, Gaga herself has been compared to Madonna since the beginning of her career. It's a story that's constantly repeating itself: Commodifying, comparing, contrasting; Society's need to merge female artists into overcrowded bubbles, discrediting their work, moving on to the next shiny new thing, leaving the rest behind.
At only 21 years old, Olivia Rodrigo's mastery of lyricism is nothing short of impressive. After the release of her first single, "drivers license" at 17, she became an overnight success. Since then, her songwriting skills and the themes of her songs have led Rodrigo to be considered a "modern Taylor Swift," or, as a nod to her pop-punk influences, even a "modern Avril Lavigne." Olivia's ability to switch between the two genres, pairing self-deprecating, angsty lyrics with witty, lively guitars on one hand, and delivering heartbreaking ballads on the other, gives her an edge that has helped her break out of that popstar mold to establish her own sound and style. However, comparisons like these are not only inaccurate —especially given that Swift began her career in country music and the fact that writing your own lyrics or singing about teenage turmoil isn’t exclusive to her— but they also reduce complex, individual artists to a single mold, creating unnecessary tensions and overwhelming expectations.
"I guess you didn't mean what you wrote in that song about me / 'Cause you said forever, now I drive alone past your street" (Rodrigo, Driver’s License)
Clearly, there is a paradoxical expectation for female artists to stand out while still sticking to the mold. While many of these new artists have established themselves as their own brand of artist, there are many more who are forced to live under the shadow of a predecessor the media has chosen for them.
The music industry isn't the way that it was 25 years ago: instead of getting "discovered," artists are marketing their songs on social media until they stick and go viral. But the fickleness of modern audiences makes it harder for new artists to rise; once a song peaks, it’s often quickly forgotten. It's practically impossible to create "new" anything because of it. In fact, there's a lot of discourse behind rising artist Tate McRae who, with her background in dance and powdery-sweet voice, often gets compared to Britney Spears. With the release of her most recent song, "Sports car," McRae has received countless rounds of criticism for "trying too hard" to be like Spears, despite being pushed towards that label since the release of her 2023 album Think Later. She’s been more open about the comparison, even as the same public that pointed out the similarities accused her of “recreating” Britney’s sound and aesthetic, urging her to focus on developing her own musical identity.
In addition, the situation is often far worse for women of color. South African artist Tyla has faced constant comparisons to Rihanna since the release of her debut single, "Water." Many have even positioned Tyla’s artistry as a stand-in for Rihanna’s long absence from music. While comparisons between artists often focus on songwriting, style, or performance, in this case, they have frequently devolved into superficial judgments. This kind of comparison reduces both women to their appearances and turns their artistry and brand identity into a competition. While many fans of white artists try to hide the need to create competition between them by creating useless musical hierarchies such as "Tate McRae is Britney Spears' daughter," the act of pitting women of color against each other is far more blatant—often resorting to comparisons that audiences would never dare to make with white artists.
The harmful comparisons that the media has given these emerging pop girls have hindered the progress of music, not to mention its facilitation of crippling pressure in an already fast-paced industry. This constant desire to resurrect music from the 2000s to satisfy a nostalgia-hungry public continues to stall innovation in pop, as the same kinds of songs keep being recycled. According to an article by Ted Gioia, old songs represent about 70% of the music market at the moment, shrinking opportunities for emerging artists and turning the concept of the “working musician” into an increasingly endangered idea. Because of the speed at which songs are made viral and then forgotten, no song from this new era has had the same cultural and long-lasting impact as songs from, say, 20 years ago. In addition, these artists are stripped of their individuality through constant comparison. Some feel pressured to intentionally evoke nostalgia in hopes of gaining a larger following, only to be criticized for doing exactly what audiences seemed to want from them.
The bodies and talents of female artists are treated with such disposability, it's hard to keep track of who the public loves and hates. When these women push back against criticism, they’re often dismissed or cast aside, shoved into a darker corner of the public’s perception. It’s a vicious cycle, one that disproportionately targets women in the industry. A cycle of morbid obsession that, after a while, begins to manifest into believing that an artist is "overrated" once they quickly reach stardom, all for them to be forgotten just as quickly Unlike the possibility that artists were once given to grow and develop new sounds and aesthetics, everyone is a tangible substitute for the artist before, keeping the throne warm for the next big thing (at least, for the next three months). This is why 'hunting' for the next early 2000s star does not work: because the industry has evolved, the public has changed, and new artists should be given the possibility to venture out of the shadows they've been forced under by the public.
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