You Can’t Cancel the Party

A conversation with Paxton Smith, Texas' most emotionally distant party girl

There’s a version of Paxton Smith that lives on the internet forever: 19 years old, valedictorian cap perched neatly, hijacking her graduation speech with a bold, unapproved statement about reproductive rights in Texas. The moment went viral. And suddenly she was the nation’s latest Gen Z icon—young, femme, furious, and perfectly quotable.

But these days, she’d rather hand you a drink and drag you to the dance floor.

Her debut EP, But I Love It, drops soon. It’s the first major release from the 22-year-old Austin-based artist and producer, and it feels less like a rebrand and more like a shedding of skin. Her breakout track, Middle Class White Trash, doesn’t aim to reclaim the phrase—it weaponizes it, wraps it in synths, and laughs as it burns. “I kind of felt like I was writing it about myself,” Paxton says, “but also about the frat guy persona—the party animal who can do whatever he wants because he’s rich.”

It’s a tongue-in-cheek critique delivered with deadpan brilliance. “Money and class almost become this immunity trophy,” she adds. “It’s wild what people can get away with when they’re protected.”

If that sounds like something a former activist might say, that’s because it is. But this time, it’s dressed in a four-on-the-floor beat.

“I hate feeling negative emotions,” she tells ASLUT. “I avoid sad slow songs like the plague. I try to talk about very real and uncomfortable things, but still have a good time with it.”

This is the crux of Paxton’s artistry: rage with a BPM, self-awareness with glitter, intimacy disguised as a party track. It’s alt-pop with a knowing side-eye, deeply influenced by her personal holy trinity: UPSAHL, Lilyisthatyou, and producer Evan Blair. “If I get in my feelings, I can listen to them but still feel empowered by singing along,” she says. “That’s what I want to do.”

She produces all of her music herself, and she says the sound design is where she obsesses most. Her tracks are polished, but messy. Bright, but bloodshot. And her lyrics land like a text you weren’t supposed to see.

Case in point: Belong Here, a track rooted in the soft collapse of imposter syndrome. “I really did think I didn’t belong,” she admits. “I created all these narratives in my head about people not liking me or wanting me around.” The difference now? “Paxton today is not as overthinky as she was then.”

Still, she’s careful not to repackage herself as healed, happy, or marketably whole. That would be too neat for someone whose creative world is built on what she calls cultural dirt. “Like, if you visit Austin—it feels a little dirty, a little messy,” she says. “Graffiti, thrifted clothes, tie-dye. You can see where people’s stories have unfolded all over the city.”

That’s what she wants the EP to feel like—“dirt, sometimes trash, edgy-cute, and also bright colors in a dark room.” A little grime. A lot of guts. Perfectly imperfect.

There’s an effortless duality to Paxton that’s hard to fake: she’s fiercely self-directed but deeply allergic to being perceived. She’s gone viral for taking bold political stances, but she winces at the thought of someone listening to her EP too closely. “Maybe no one,” she says when asked who she hopes hears it. “I don’t like being vulnerable with people (ironic, I know).”

It’s not shyness. It’s sovereignty.

“When I wrote these songs, I didn’t really make them with the intent of having anybody understand me better,” she says. “It was just a way to explore my feelings and get them out of my heart.”

There’s something quietly radical about that—art not made to be consumed, but expelled. Paxton’s not curating a version of herself for public digestion anymore. She’s just living it. Loudly, weirdly, honestly.

“Sometimes people can only see me as who I am on social media,” she says. “Even people who I used to know personally. It’s frustrating to hear people say, ‘Don’t forget me when,’ but they’re the ones forgetting you.”

So no, she’s not here to be your symbol. Not your savior. Not your idea of what a good girl from Texas should be.

She’s here to make bangers. To feel her feelings. To party through the fire. And maybe—just maybe—to remind you that even when the world tries to make you a moment, you can still become a movement.

One synth line at a time.