Paramore Codexery

This Is Why music video

A candy-colored dream that quietly confesses you're not enough.

"This Is Why" is a music video accompanying one of the most emotionally raw tracks on Paramore's 2017 album *After Laughter*. Directed as part of the band's deliberate visual pivot toward a hyper-stylized, pastel-drenched retro world, the video places frontwoman Hayley Williams at the center of a dreamlike, almost surreal environment that contrasts sharply with the song's aching themes of self-doubt and feeling perpetually not enough.

Within the broader *After Laughter* visual campaign, the video serves as a key emotional anchor: it translates the album's central tension—radiant, almost aggressively cheerful imagery wrapping around lyrics that quietly unravel—into a single, watchable experience. Fans often point to it as the moment the band's aesthetic identity for that era crystallized most clearly.

Song
This Is Why
Album
After Laughter
Release year
2017
Artist
Paramore
Central performer
Hayley Williams
Era aesthetic
Pastel retro / 80s–90s-inspired
Thematic core
Self-doubt, feeling inadequate, seeking validation

Lore & Background

The *After Laughter* era represented Paramore's most deliberate aesthetic reinvention. Where earlier visuals leaned into grunge, raw energy, or narrative-driven storytelling, this period embraced a palette of soft pinks, baby blues, lavenders, and creams, paired with styling cues borrowed from late-80s and early-90s pop culture. The effect was almost uncanny: the world looked like a greeting card or a memory of a party you barely attended, while the lyrics underneath spoke of anxiety, self-rejection, and the exhausting performance of being 'fine.'

"This Is Why" sits at the emotional heart of that contradiction. The video's visual language—soft-focus lighting, saturated pastels, Williams moving through spaces that feel both intimate and strangely staged—creates a sense of beautiful isolation. She is the most polished, most 'put-together' version of herself, yet the song's narrative voice is the one whispering that none of it is real enough, that she is fundamentally insufficient. The visual perfection becomes a kind of cage.

For fans, the video's power lies in that dissonance. The brighter and more carefully composed the frame, the more the words cut. It is a visual argument that the smile you wear for the camera is not the face you see in the mirror at 2 a.m., and that the gap between those two images is where the song lives.

In Their Own Story

The light in the room is the exact shade of a lavender latte, warm and slightly artificial, like a filter no one told you was on. Hayley stands at the edge of a set that looks like it was built for a commercial about happiness—curved white walls, a single potted plant, a mirror that reflects a version of her who is a half-second more confident than she actually is. She adjusts a strand of hair. The camera holds. Somewhere in the mix, a synth pad swells like a held breath.

She doesn't sing the words out loud. She doesn't have to. The room already knows them. The pastel glow on her skin looks less like color and more like a bruise seen through frosted glass. For a moment the set feels less like a stage and more like the inside of a very pretty box you were given at a party you didn't want to attend, and you're still holding it, three years later, because you don't know how to set it down without admitting you never liked it.

The light flickers. The lavender goes a shade colder. She breathes. The frame holds. That's the whole song, really: the holding.

Reader's Guide

Picture the frame: a wide, soft-focus shot bathed in the unmistakable *After Laughter* palette—dusty rose, periwinkle, and a cream that sits just short of white. Hayley Williams is styled in the era's signature look: clean lines, a touch of retro glamour, hair and makeup polished to a sheen that reads as both beautiful and slightly synthetic. The set around her is minimal but deliberate, curved surfaces and soft geometry that evoke a late-80s music video set without directly copying any single reference. The lighting is diffused, almost overexposed, giving skin and fabric a gentle bloom that flattens shadows and removes the sense of a 'real' room.

What makes the look land is the restraint. There is no chaos, no grit, no visual noise. Every element is placed with the care of a still-life painting, and that precision is the point. The song underneath is a quiet, spiraling confession of inadequacy, and the video's answer is to wrap that confession in the most beautiful, most 'put-together' packaging possible. The mismatch is the message.

Styling choices—soft fabrics, a muted-but-saturated color story, a wardrobe that feels curated rather than casual—reinforce the idea of performance. This is the self as product, as presentation. And the viewer, watching a woman who looks like she belongs in a perfume ad while the lyrics peel back the smile, feels the tension in their own chest. The look matched the sound because both were doing the same trick: making a wound look like a gift, and trusting the audience to notice the seam.

Did You Know?

More in Visuals & Aesthetics

Elsewhere in the Paramore universe

Spotted an error? Know more?

This is a living reference — every entry is fact-audited, and reader corrections feed straight into our audit queue. Suggest an edit · See this site's audit record

Comments

Loading…
Open in the interactive codex →