Demi Lovato Weds, Dances, and Drops Drama: Inside Her Boldest Era Yet

That spirit pulses throughout Lovato’s ninth studio album, “It’s Not That Deep.” This isn’t an ordinary pop record; it almost feels like a manifesto wrapped in neon beats, the sort you can almost see bouncing off the walls of some hidden warehouse club at 2am. Yet, there’s restraint, an evident hand on the fader from someone who’s seen what waits at the other end of excess. It’s not the anthem of a wild night gone sideways—more a soundtrack for when the right kind of joy finally finds you again.

Not all artists can pull off a rebirth that feels authentic, but Lovato leans in with abandon. Consider her recent Who What Wear shoot: a desert backdrop, pink faux-pearls catching the sun, that dress daring years of old insecurities to try and keep up. She tries on mesh, silk, even the kind of corset that’s part high fashion, part protection. There’s a wink to it all, as though she’s telling the old scripts to take several seats. One look and you get the sense this isn’t just performance. It’s a reclamation project, each choice—sound, style, smile—deliberate and grounded.

There’s a quote from Lovato about this era: “The tone of this album is fun… Dare I say, c-ty?” The delivery lands with an infectious glee and a side-eye to her past catalogue, which, by her own admission, tended to draw from older hurt. This time, the goalpost is somewhere lighter—maybe not frivolous, but certainly less encumbered. “I wanted to solidify, right out the gate, that we’re gonna have fun.” Perhaps her most subversive leap is choosing happiness—and refusing to make suffering sound poetic.

Still, lightness can be a form of resistance. Lovato’s work in recent years—especially “Holy Fvck” and her hard-hitting documentary “Child Star”—never pivoted away from trauma or the underbelly of fame. Growing up Demetria Devonne Lovato, everything about her origin suggests she’d be comfortable singing to the rafters of a Texas church, even if what she preached rarely matched the home-life realities. Disney crowned her a star before most kids her age could drive. The visible glamour shrouded a complicated undercurrent: public breakdowns, addiction, and the kind of scrutiny no teenager should have to navigate.

Lovato didn't rest on confession. “Child Star,” which dropped in the thick of the post-pandemic content boom, brought together familiar faces: Raven-Symoné, Drew Barrymore, JoJo Siwa. While some ex-child stars collapse under the weight of nostalgia, Lovato orchestrated a genuine dialogue, threading humor and wound-care in equal measure. It wasn’t just a group therapy session, either. She pressed for actual change, getting behind California bills designed to shield the next wave of young hopefuls from the worst bits of digital-age fame. There’s a particular grit in using your fame to fix the system that once hurt you—even if laws move slower than a pop beat.

Yet for all that activism, Lovato’s happiest truths seem, these days, to surface in her own life’s small victories. Her Santa Barbara wedding this spring, Vivienne Westwood gown cutting through the Pacific breeze, felt almost like the coda to a decade-long redemption arc. Her partner, Jordan “Jutes” Lutes—a steady hand on both songwriting and life’s unpredictable script—was by her side through the storms preceding “Holy Fvck.” Now, that partnership seems to have brought everything into sweet relief. “I had to do the work...and then I was able to share it with somebody else.” It’s an old idea, but hers feels earned, as if the universe cut her a deal only after she passed several grueling tests.

None of that serenity means she’s dulled her edge. “It’s Not That Deep” feels purpose-built for spaces where sweat blurs the line between catharsis and celebration. Producer Zhone, who knows a thing or two about injecting pop with hips and heat, coaxes from Lovato the kind of bangers meant for ballrooms, not break-ups. The collaboration with Kesha injects a sly wink; tracks like “Frequency” pack a strut so joyous, even RuPaul’s Drag Race could use it as a soundtrack for a lip-sync battle royale. It’s diva music, but unselfconscious—a rare breed in 2025’s crowded field of flavor-of-the-month pop hopefuls.

Onstage, the transformation is even more striking. Black lace, dancers flying in formation, cheers bouncing off the walls from fans who feel almost like family at this point—a set that glides from the neon-hypersonic latest material to, yes, the retro charm of “This Is Me.” That willingness to honor the whole journey—cringe, struggle, and all—gives her performances an uncommon texture. The past isn’t omitted. It’s repurposed.

Curiously, for a record so intertwined with club-ready beats, this celebration is pointedly sober. Lovato doesn’t quote her resilience in grand, heavy speeches—she’ll just as soon roll her eyes about downing an energy drink on the way to the dance floor. For her, the club means connection, not chaos—a kind of secular sanctuary for queer folks, misfits, anyone who’s fought for, and won, the right to feel good in their own skin. In a pop landscape sometimes obsessed with pushing boundaries simply for spectacle, there’s something quietly radical about choosing stability over shock.

With the “It’s Not That Deep” North American tour arriving this spring, Lovato’s story seems primed to turn another page—perhaps one less public, but no less vital. Gone is the endless dig into pain for profit. Instead, these shows promise something warmer: a pressure valve, a celebration, a communal letting go. It’s a testament to survival, but also to moving on.

So if a pop album were ever to deserve a warning label, let it be this: beware, not of the darkness lurking beneath the surface, but of the sunlight that just might break through. Funny, Lovato herself sums it best, sly smile in tow—sometimes it really isn’t that deep. And sometimes, that’s exactly the point.