Pom Pom Squad on the Ups and Downs of Success and Why Rage is a Core Theme of Her Sophomore Album
Words: Charis McGowan
Make it stand out
Mia Berrin is hanging up her pom poms. In her 2021 debut album — the raw, grunge-driven Death of a Cheerleader — she donned a cheer uniform to subvert the popular societal ideal to a figure on the fringe of society. Her sophomore album Mirror Starts Moving Without Me isn’t hinged to a single archetype, but remains fixated on the outsider. “I was thinking about the classic horror movie trope where the character is looking in the mirror, and then the mirror does something that the character doesn't do,” she explains. “It usually represents internal desire or darker ambition.”
Berrin wrote Death of A Cheerleader between the ages of 17-22, navigating her youth as a queer person of colour on the outside, looking in. Now 27, she’s at a different stage in her life — reeling from the critical acclaim of Death of a Cheerleader and all the newfound attention. On the punk-pop track “Downhill” she reflects on this bittersweet comedown; "I've tried every kind of poison / but attention is the drug I can’t quit.
“I’m grateful for what I do,” says Berrin. “But I don’t think anyone is prepared for criticism and attention.” Berrin, who lives with bipolar disorder, has used her platform and music to speak openly about mental health. The barrage of fame was overwhelming; “I feel things deeply. I think it was a lot of information and it messed with my sense of identity.”
Until the release of her debut, she’d make music purely as a creative outlet. With the sophomore, the outside expectations threw her into flux. “People can say, “You signed up to be a public figure”, but no one signs up to be horrifically criticised for your appearance and the things you put forth from your heart,” she reflects. “My inner critic is very loud. It’s difficult to get the external validation of all the horrible things you're saying to yourself in your head.”
Mirror Starts Moving Without Me was a struggle to create, but the result is a beautiful, complex collection of songs that range from poignant ballads to ferocious takedowns. Despite the difference in pace, they are lyrically united by rage and reckoning: you crossed me so I had to cross you out she taunts on “Villain”, call me out if you ever want to talk / I mean box with the gloves off on campy pop-rock hit “Street Fighter”; I’m losing my grip and I’m tumbling down she cries on the thunderous closer “The Tower”.
“Rage has shaped me as a person and as an artist. Growing up, I (felt like) I wasn't supposed to have feelings of anger,” she reflects. “Riot grrrl and grunge music unlocked something for me.”
She cites her mother’s love of nu-wave and her father’s taste for RnB among her eclectic mix of influences, but her “big ones” are Courtney Love, Hole, Bikini Kill, Bratmobile: “I needed to hear other women being angry. It was a gut punch for me.”
“The idea of the cheerleader… felt like this embodiment of everything that I could not be as like a woman of colour, who was clinically depressed and like, gay. It just felt like I was so far removed from the ideal.”
Yet away from the distortion that she excels in, the album’s quieter moments are equally rewarding and brazen. “Doll Song”, about a toxic relationship, journeys from quiet acoustic to orchestral empowerment, I’m not going to come when you call anymore / I don’t know how you made a doll out of me, she sings on the track that haunts like a lullaby.
“There’s so much other music that expresses rage in such a beautiful way. Roman Candle by Elliot Smith is a soft, beautiful song, but there's like such an anger in it,” she says. To coax her out of her initial creative block, she made a playlist of all the defining songs of her life, and found they spanned from Bikini Kill to Prince: “Some of those songs were the straight up kind of ragey songs. But some are artists who have found different ways to express anger.” The playlist was a rewarding exercise. “It helped me re-center. I have a flimsy identity at times. It was proof I've always been exactly who I am, I'm drawn to the things that I'm drawn to.”
“Identity” is a recurring word in our conversation. Berrin’s lyrics are diaristic and relentless, wrought with such emotion that they are, at times, painful to hear. The album was a hard process, made through tears. Looking inwards, while being aware of outside perception, is part of Pom Pom Squad’s genesis, “the idea of the cheerleader… felt like this embodiment of everything that I could not be as like a woman of colour, who was clinically depressed and like, gay. It just felt like I was so far removed from the ideal.”
While the cheerleader is not a motif on this album, Berrin alludes to plenty of other figures in her wake, from the doll, the video game character, the villain. “I love references, I love messing around with stigmas that exist around feminine archetypes specifically and what women can, or can’t be.” Mirror Starts Moving Without Me is a reflection of what Berrin definitely is: a captivating artist with prolific songwriting capability. It’s not an easy ride, but we’re cheering for her all the way.
