There is no great betrayal on star-crossed; no bloodletting; no revenge. While Kacey Musgraves’ fourth album intends to guide you from the early stages of a marriage through the aftermath of a divorce, the East Texas songwriter barely mentions the other person at the heart of her story, and her narrator doesn’t seem all that surprised when things start heading south. The 15-track record is billed as a “tragedy in three parts”—inspired by Shakespeare and a pivotal experience on psychedelic mushrooms, paired with an expensive-looking film and the most elaborate production of her career—but Musgraves takes great pains to ground the songs in reality, where things happen subtly, quietly, and without poetry. “If this was a movie, love would be enough,” she sings. “But it’s not a movie.”
Like so much of her best work—the clever, tragic turns of phrase in “Space Cowboy,” the double portrait of a proud outcast and her tight-knit community on 2013’s Same Trailer Different Park—Musgraves’ latest album offers something of a bait and switch. In country music, breakups are discussed with the severity of mass extinction events: When life goes on after love, it is haunted, tortured, joyless. And when it doesn’t, dirty laundry is aired in public, bodies torched and disappeared. Musgraves, who filed for divorce in the summer of 2020, is aware of the gravity of her subject matter: “I wasn’t going to be a real country artist without at least one divorce under my belt,” she joked, and star-crossed arrives to both the highest expectations of her career and a storied lineage in the genre.
Matters are complicated further by Musgraves’ previous album, 2018’s radiant, Grammy-winning Golden Hour, a pop breakthrough inspired by the glow of a happy relationship. The best thing that new love offered Musgraves in those songs was perspective—a vantage from which she could muse with newfound wisdom on her family, her future, and her past. Take “High Horse,” where the joyful momentum of a disco beat led her to realize that even her worst ex wasn’t just something awful that happened to her—he was a type of person, an experience she was never alone in enduring. “Everyone knows someone who kills the buzz every time they open up their mouth,” she sang with bravado, speaking for multitudes.
On star-crossed, Musgraves stands by herself, taking no comfort in this type of insight. This album’s “Breadwinner” feels like a dark counterpart to “High Horse,” with a muted dance beat that plays like steady rain from a gray sky. “I wish somebody would have told me the truth/Say he’s never gonna know what to do/With a woman like you,” she sings in the chorus, isolated and full of doubt. If being in love made Musgraves feel connected to the world, these songs find her burrowing inward, questioning everything. Accordingly, the tragedy unfolding on the album is not that of a good relationship turning bad; it is of a once-confident person losing touch with the things that made her feel complete, worried that life might never be so simple again.