Brutalist Lyrics – Kim Petras | from “Detour”

First teased on her Tumblr back in late 2025, this unreleased gem pulls straight from Petras’ childhood road trips across Germany, those hormone therapy quests with her architect dad that doubled as crash courses in brutalist beauty. She spilled the blueprint to V Magazine: dodging psychologists who’d actually treat a trans kid, they’d detour to ogle concrete cathedrals, only for one fave—a “magical, sick” brutalist icon—to get bulldozed for some soulless poolside high-rise. It’s that sting she flips into metaphor, mirroring the online trolls who trash her “ruining” the body “God gave” her.

Thematically, it’s Petras at her most unarmored: grief for what’s erased, defiance in the rebuild, wrapped in sparse, haunting pop that lets the ache breathe. Expect her crystalline vocals over minimal synths and echoing percussion—less club banger, more midnight confessional, co-written in LA sessions that echo her shift from party anthems to soul-baring blueprints. No collabs teased yet, but her Twitter snippets had stans dissecting those four raw lines like sacred text, fueling the hype on her socials.

Detour itself feels like Petras reclaiming the map—[12-14 tracks] of emotional U-turns, kicking off with the sleek “Polo” from mid-2025 and weaving in contrasts like the edgy “I Like Ur Look.” It’s her third studio swing post-Feed The Beast and Slut Pop’s raunchy highs, ditching pure escapism for a concept rooted in detours literal and loaded: trans triumphs, lost landmarks, love’s wrong turns. Recorded amid her whirlwind ’25—Coachella sets, that MISTR collab fighting STI stigma—it’s got guest spots rumored from Charli XCX circles, all under a glossy-yet-gritty production sheen that nods to her Berlin roots without the frostbite.

She’s storming into ’26 on fire, off Unholy’s Grammy nod glow-up and sold-out residencies that proved she’s pop’s unbreakable force. This era? It’s Petras, the kid who fought for her truth, architecting anthems that honor the ruins—tour dates already stacking from SF’s Castro Theatre in March, vinyl whispers hinting at collector’s fever.