25 Forever Review: CHROMA Turns Your 20s Panic Into a Dance Track

CHROMA’s 25 Forever swaps politics for personal wreckage—relationships, mental health, existential spirals—then dares you to dance through it.

A record that smiles while it’s quietly unraveling

Some albums want to change the world. 25 Forever mostly wants to survive it—specifically the part of life where your calendar fills up, your brain empties out, and you pretend that’s fine because the drums are upbeat.

CHROMA (a Welsh alternative pop-rock trio) used to sound like they were aiming their songs outward. I can hear that shift here: 25 Forever stops lecturing the room and starts talking like it pulled up a chair next to you. It’s still shiny and punchy, but the subject matter is the stuff you only admit after midnight—relationships, mental health, and the low-grade existential dread that somehow comes free with your 20s.

And yes, it’s oddly easy to move to. Not because the album is carefree—because it’s trying to act carefree. That’s the whole trick.

The opener “What!” starts with static like it’s setting expectations

Right away, “What!” kicks in with feedback—an opening move that basically says, “We’re not easing you in.” Then it builds into this alternative rock blast with punk edges, like it’s powered by caffeine and poor decisions.

Here’s the thing: I thought that feedback intro was going to be a generic “rock album begins now” gesture. But once the song actually drops, it clicks. The energy isn’t just volume—it’s confidence, and it feels intentional, like they wrote it with the stage in mind. The tempo and snap of it practically demand a crowd.

I’m going to say the quiet part out loud: this track is designed to be screamed back at the band. And that’s not an insult—some songs are born for sticky floors and bad monitors.

“Riverhouse” makes the album’s mission statement obvious

Flowing straight out of that opener, “Riverhouse” lands with a catchy hook that feels almost weaponized. It’s the kind of chorus that doesn’t ask if you’re having a bad day—it assumes you are, then shoves you forward anyway.

If “What!” is the spark, “Riverhouse” is the payoff: a song built to give you just enough fake confidence to walk outside and pretend you’ve got a plan. And honestly, that’s one of the album’s defining choices—25 Forever keeps giving you momentum even when the lyrics are side-eyeing your entire life.

A reasonable person could argue it’s “too polished” for its own good here. I get that. But I think that gloss is part of the point: the songs dress up the sadness so you’ll actually let it in.

Video: “Lifehack” doesn’t fix your life—it just names the feeling

The album’s emotional pivot is easier to hear once “Lifehack” arrives, because it’s where the record starts showing its softer underbelly without dropping the beat entirely.

What surprised me is how the song stays smooth and laidback while still keeping a pulse. It doesn’t slump. It doesn’t spiral. It just… tells the truth with decent posture. That’s a choice—CHROMA could’ve made the “personal album” move and drained all color out of the production. They don’t. They keep it moving, like they’re refusing to let introspection become boredom.

I’m not totally sure if that restraint is bravery or avoidance. Maybe both.

KT Hall’s vocals are the album’s real plot twist

The clearest “engine” on 25 Forever is KT Hall. The vocals are flexible in a way that matters: loud and explosive when the songs need to hit, then suddenly gentle and exposed when the album turns inward.

On the heavier side, Hall can sound like a warning siren. On the softer tracks, there’s this vulnerable steadiness—like the voice is trying not to crack, and that effort becomes part of the emotion.

If you want a blunt take: the band’s biggest strength is knowing exactly when to let Hall take over a track, and when to keep the arrangement tight enough that the vocal doesn’t have to beg for space.

“Straight Men” is the moment the album stops being polite

“Straight Men” comes in as an electronic rock number, and it doesn’t bother with subtlety. The title is the thesis, and the song leans into the grim everyday reality of existing as a woman right now.

The repeated lyric—“Scared of me, scared of them”—hits because it frames fear as something that ricochets between people in completely different ways. That repetition isn’t lazy; it’s pressure. Like the song is pushing your face toward the contradiction and refusing to let you look away.

Now, a mild complaint: the track’s idea is so sharp that I kept waiting for the production to get even meaner, even uglier. It stays controlled. That control might be the point—fear doesn’t always come with cinematic chaos—but part of me wanted the sound to bite harder to match the message.

Still, the song does what it needs to do: it makes the album’s “personal” angle feel less like diary-writing and more like survival math.

The slower songs don’t collapse—they smirk

After songs that swing with punch and volume, the record slips into more laidback territory with “Lifehack” and the title track “25 Forever.” These aren’t acoustic confessions or dramatic slow-dances. They keep some energy, but the edges soften and the production smooths out.

And here’s my read: CHROMA isn’t trying to make you sad. They’re trying to make you recognize yourself while you’re still functioning. That’s why the songs keep their grooves even when the themes get heavy. It’s the soundtrack of holding it together in public.

On first listen, I assumed the title track would be the big dramatic centerpiece—the “here’s what it all means” moment. On second thought, the title track feels more like a resigned shrug with good melody. Which is honestly more believable. Most people don’t have a revelation at 25. They just refresh their email and keep going.

The ending is where the album finally stops pretending

The album’s most vulnerable stretch lives at the finish line, with the final two tracks making a point of not sounding like a victory lap.

“People Pleaser” turns the distortion inward

“People Pleaser” leans into a darker, more distorted style. It’s about the reality of trying to keep everyone else happy—and the self-erasure that comes with it.

This track feels like the moment the album drops the “we can dance through this” mask for a second. The distortion isn’t just texture; it’s consequence. You can hear the emotional cost in the way the song roughs itself up.

A listener could argue this is where the record should’ve gone earlier, that the album waits too long to get properly ugly. I don’t fully agree, but I understand the impulse. The late-arriving darkness makes the ending hit harder, yet it also exposes how bright some earlier moments are.

“It’s Stupid” says the quiet part out loud

Then there’s “It’s Stupid,” which plays like an honest conversation about self-worth and mental health—the kind where you finally admit something real and immediately try to take it back.

That’s what makes it sting: it captures that all-too-familiar reflex where, after saying how bad you feel, you end by calling your problems—and yourself—stupid for feeling them in the first place. It’s not melodrama. It’s the normal cruelty people do to themselves when they don’t want to be “a burden.”

If the album has a thesis, it’s probably here: you can keep moving, you can keep dancing, you can keep smiling—but you still have to live with what your brain says when the room goes quiet.

So what is CHROMA actually doing on 25 Forever?

CHROMA made a record that’s personal without turning small. The topics are big—relationships, mental health, existential dread—but the delivery stays intimate, like a friend talking fast because they don’t want to cry.

And the band clearly wrote this album with live performance in mind. You can practically hear the crowd-shaped gaps where chants and movement would happen. Even when the lyrics get heavy, the music refuses to lie down.

Does the balance always work? Almost. Sometimes I think the record’s polish keeps it from sounding as feral as its themes deserve. But the flip side is that the polish is what makes these songs replayable—nobody wants to slog through misery for 40 minutes unless the hooks keep dragging them back.

For me, this lands around a 9/10 experience in terms of how effectively it delivers what it’s aiming for: a cathartic, danceable self-audit.

25 Forever is out now via Alcopop! Records.

Conclusion

25 Forever feels like CHROMA choosing honesty over commentary—then decorating that honesty with hooks so you’ll swallow it without realizing. It’s the sound of your 20s waving at you from across the dance floor, holding a drink, looking a little haunted.

Our verdict: People who like emotional lyrics but refuse to listen to “sad music” will love 25 Forever because it sneaks the sadness in wearing good shoes. If you need your angst raw, ugly, and unvarnished, you might find this album a little too composed—like it tidied up before you came over.

FAQ

• What is the core theme of 25 Forever?
  It’s a personal look at life lessons in your 20s—relationships, mental health, and existential spirals—without turning the music into a slow crawl.
• Is 25 Forever meant to be heard live?
  Yes, the punchy pacing and chant-ready hooks (especially early on) sound built for a room full of moving bodies.
• Which track shows the album’s political edge the most?
  “Straight Men” hits hardest in that lane, using repetition and tension to underline what it’s talking about.
• Does the album slow down much?
  It has gentler moments like “Lifehack” and the title track, but it keeps a pulse—more laidback than sleepy.
• What’s the most emotionally direct moment?
  The closing stretch: “People Pleaser” and “It’s Stupid” feel like the album stops performing confidence and admits what it costs.

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