Chappell Roan's "Subway": A Love Letter to Early 2000s Pop Culture

 There's something deeply familiar about Chappell Roan's "Subway" that transcends mere musical homage. From the moment the track begins, listeners are transported not just through the literal subway tunnels depicted in the song, but through time itself, hurtling backward to an era when flip phones were still cool, low-rise jeans dominated fashion, and pop music had a particular kind of glossy, unapologetic sheen. The song, released in 2025, feels like it could have easily sat alongside tracks from Kylie Minogue, early Lady Gaga, or the Scissor Sisters on a mixtape from 2003, and that's entirely the point. Roan has crafted something that doesn't just reference the early 2000s but actively resurrects its spirit, creating a sonic time capsule that speaks to our current cultural obsession with Y2K nostalgia while simultaneously offering something fresh and emotionally resonant.

The production choices on "Subway" immediately signal Roan's intentions. The synth work is unmistakably indebted to the electropop revolution that dominated the early 2000s, with pulsing basslines that recall the work of producers like Bloodshy & Avant, who helped define the sound of that era. There's a particular brightness to the production, a kind of crystalline quality that was characteristic of pop music before the bass-heavy trap influences of the 2010s took over. The drums have that crisp, almost mechanical precision that defined early digital pop production, before the pendulum swung back toward more organic, live-feeling percussion. Every element feels intentionally placed to evoke a specific moment in pop history, when electronic music was becoming increasingly sophisticated but hadn't yet lost its sense of playful experimentation.

What makes "Subway" particularly effective is how it captures not just the sound but the emotional tenor of early 2000s pop. That era was defined by a curious tension between optimism and melancholy, between the glossy surface of pop perfection and an underlying current of longing and loneliness. Songs like Robyn's "With Every Heartbeat" or even early Britney Spears tracks managed to be simultaneously euphoric and heartbreaking, and Roan taps into that same duality. The song's lyrics navigate themes of desire, connection, and urban anonymity with the same kind of emotional directness that characterized the best pop music of that period. There's no ironic distance here, no postmodern winking at the audience. Roan commits fully to the emotion, just as pop stars did before sincerity in pop became something to be defended or justified.

The music video for "Subway" takes the nostalgic project even further, transforming what could have been a straightforward visual accompaniment into a meticulous recreation of early 2000s aesthetics. The cinematography choices alone tell the story of Roan's commitment to authenticity. The video has that slightly oversaturated, high-contrast look that was ubiquitous in music videos from the late 1990s through the mid-2000s, before high-definition cameras became standard and gave everything that ultra-crisp, sometimes sterile appearance. There's a graininess to certain shots, a warmth to the color palette that feels distinctly analog, even though it was surely shot on digital equipment. The camera movements have that slightly frenetic, handheld quality that music video directors like Dave Meyers or Diane Martel popularized during that era, creating a sense of urgency and intimacy that modern, drone-assisted cinematography often lacks.

Perhaps the most striking choice in the video is Roan's decision to film on an older subway train, the kind with that distinctive aesthetic from the 1990s and early 2000s. This wasn't a necessity, it was a deliberate artistic choice, and it's one that pays enormous dividends in terms of the video's overall impact. Modern subway cars, with their digital displays, sleek plastic interiors, and LED lighting, have a generic, almost sterile quality. The older trains, by contrast, have character. They have those fabric seats with their distinctive patterns, the yellowed plastic grab handles, the analog signage, the particular quality of fluorescent lighting that gives everything a slightly dreamlike, almost underwater glow. These trains exist in our collective memory as the backdrop to countless music videos, movies, and television shows from that era. They're inseparable from the visual language of early 2000s urban culture.

By choosing to film on one of these older trains, Roan accomplishes several things simultaneously. First, she creates an immediate visual shorthand that signals to viewers exactly what era she's evoking. The train itself becomes a character in the video, a time machine that reinforces the song's nostalgic project. Second, she taps into a very specific kind of urban nostalgia, the memory of public transportation before smartphones made every commute a solitary experience of screen-staring. The early 2000s were the last gasp of a kind of public anonymity and possibility that feels increasingly distant. On those subway cars, people still made eye contact, still experienced boredom in ways that led to daydreaming and observation rather than constant digital stimulation. The video captures that quality, showing Roan and other passengers existing in a shared physical space with all the romantic possibility that entails.

The styling and fashion choices in the video further cement its early 2000s bonafides. Roan's outfits throughout the video could have been pulled directly from the closet of any pop star circa 2003, with that particular combination of futuristic elements and retro touches that defined the era. There are low-waisted pants, crop tops that show just a sliver of midriff, chunky platform shoes, and accessories that toe the line between tacky and irresistible. The makeup is equally evocative, with that glossy lip, the slightly frosted eyeshadow, the precise eyeliner that was de rigueur for pop stars of that period. Even the hair styling, with its carefully constructed messiness, recalls the aesthetic preferences of the early 2000s, when "effortless" looks actually required enormous effort to achieve.

What's fascinating about this nostalgic exercise is how it speaks to our current cultural moment. The early 2000s are having a significant revival across multiple dimensions of popular culture, from fashion to music to visual aesthetics. For younger fans who didn't experience that era firsthand, the period holds a kind of exotic appeal, a time before social media completely transformed how we interact with each other and with celebrity culture. For those who did live through it, the nostalgia operates differently, tapping into memories of a pre-recession, pre-smartphone world that can seem almost impossibly innocent from our current vantage point. Roan's "Subway" serves both audiences, offering enough authenticity to satisfy those with lived memories of the era while being accessible and fresh enough to avoid feeling like a mere tribute act.

The song's setting on the subway is itself significant. Public transportation, particularly in large cities, has long been a fertile ground for pop music storytelling. The subway represents possibility, movement, the chance encounter, the moment of connection in an otherwise atomized urban existence. In the early 2000s, the subway was still primarily experienced without the buffer of personal technology. People read newspapers, listened to music on portable CD players or early MP3 players, but there was still a fundamental engagement with the physical space and the other people in it. Roan's song captures that quality, the sense of the subway as a space where something could happen, where you might lock eyes with a stranger and feel that jolt of attraction and possibility.

The choice to center a song and video around this very specific kind of urban experience also reflects how our relationship with cities and public space has changed. The early 2000s represented a particular moment in urban life, after the major crime drops of the 1990s had made cities feel safer and more accessible, but before gentrification and skyrocketing housing costs had fundamentally transformed urban demographics in many cities. There was a grittiness and authenticity to urban life that coexisted with increasing polish and sophistication. The subway cars from that era, slightly worn but functional, colorful but not precious, somehow embody that balance. By filming on these older trains, Roan evokes not just a visual aesthetic but an entire way of experiencing urban space.

The sonic architecture of "Subway" rewards close listening, revealing layer upon layer of production choices that reinforce its early 2000s inspiration. The way the vocals are processed, with just a hint of that crystalline auto-tune that was becoming ubiquitous in pop music at the time, places the track firmly in that tradition. The backing vocals, with their anthemic quality and strategic placement, recall the work of producers like Max Martin and his protégés, who understood that pop music could be simultaneously intimate and enormous. The bridge section, with its slight key change and dynamic shift, employs a classic pop songwriting technique that has fallen somewhat out of favor in recent years but was absolutely standard during the early 2000s. These aren't innovations, they're conscious recreations, and that's precisely what makes them powerful.

There's also something to be said about how "Subway" functions as a form of emotional archaeology. The early 2000s were a complex time culturally, a brief period of relative optimism between the dot-com crash and 9/11 on one end and the 2008 financial crisis on the other. Pop music from that era often had a kind of innocent hedonism, a belief in the transformative power of a good beat and a catchy hook. Even sad songs had an element of catharsis and release built into them. Roan captures that emotional register, creating a song that acknowledges longing and difficulty but ultimately affirms the possibility of connection and joy. In our current moment, characterized by so much anxiety and uncertainty, there's something genuinely moving about music that remembers how to be unabashedly hopeful.

The video's narrative, such as it is, follows Roan through various subway encounters and moments of performance. The pacing feels distinctly early 2000s, with rapid cuts interspersed with longer, more contemplative shots. There's a music video grammar from that period, a way of structuring visual information and building emotional crescendos through editing, that the video replicates beautifully. The performance segments have Roan singing directly to the camera with an intensity and lack of self-consciousness that recalls the best pop videos of the era, when artists weren't afraid to fully commit to the emotional reality of the song. There's no ironic posturing, no knowing smirk to let the audience know that the artist is in on the joke. Roan performs with full sincerity, trusting that the audience will meet her there.

The choice of the older subway train also raises interesting questions about preservation and progress. Many cities have replaced their older rolling stock with newer, more efficient models. These older trains represent a particular moment in industrial design and public infrastructure that's rapidly disappearing. By featuring one so prominently, Roan's video inadvertently creates a document of a vanishing aesthetic. Younger viewers might not even recognize these trains as real objects that still exist in some cities, they might read them purely as nostalgic signifiers. In that sense, the video operates on multiple levels, functioning as both a celebration of early 2000s pop culture and a meditation on how quickly our material world changes.

The tactile, physical quality of those older trains contrasts sharply with the increasingly virtual nature of modern life. Everything about them feels substantial, from the metal poles to the hard plastic seats to the mechanical rumble of the movement. Modern trains, for all their improvements in comfort and efficiency, often feel more ephemeral, more like moving through a simulation than engaging with a real machine. The older aesthetic grounds the video in physicality, in the reality of bodies moving through space, which reinforces the song's themes of desire and human connection. You can almost feel the texture of those fabric seats, smell the particular combination of cleaning products and human presence that characterizes subway cars, hear the screech of metal on metal as the train takes a curve.

What Roan has accomplished with "Subway" is more sophisticated than simple nostalgia. She's not just recreating the sounds and visuals of the early 2000s, she's making an argument for the emotional and aesthetic values of that period. She's suggesting that there was something valuable in that particular approach to pop music, something worth recovering and reinterpreting for a contemporary audience. The song doesn't feel like a museum piece or a novelty, it feels vital and current even as it deliberately invokes the past. That's the trick of truly effective nostalgic art, it has to work on its own terms while simultaneously activating our memories and associations.

The early 2000s were, in many ways, the last gasp of monoculture in pop music. Artists could still have genuinely massive, cross-demographic hits in a way that became increasingly difficult as the internet fragmented audiences into ever-smaller niches. Pop music occupied a central place in the culture that it arguably no longer holds, for better or worse. Roan's evocation of that era necessarily carries with it an echo of that cultural centrality, that sense of pop music as a shared experience rather than a fragmented one. The subway itself, as a shared public space, reinforces this theme. We're all on the same train, experiencing the same journey, even if we're heading to different destinations.

In creating "Subway," Chappell Roan has given us more than just a catchy pop song with a cool video. She's created a portal to a very specific moment in cultural history, a moment that feels increasingly distant even though it's only two decades past. She's reminded us of what pop music can do when it commits fully to emotion and spectacle without embarrassment or restraint. She's shown us that the early 2000s aesthetic, far from being dated or irrelevant, still has the power to move us and make us feel something genuine. And she's done it all while making music that stands on its own merits, that would be compelling even without the nostalgic framework. That's the real achievement here, not the recreation of the past but the demonstration that the values and approaches of that era still have something to offer us today, still contain possibilities worth exploring. The subway keeps moving forward, but sometimes the most interesting journeys are the ones that take us back to where we've been, helping us see familiar landscapes with fresh eyes and renewed appreciation.