I wanted to be vulnerable and share a topic hard to discuss but necessary
Halloween can be a fun night for many of us. It’s that one time of the year when we can dress up as whoever we want, when we’re allowed to be monsters, or at least pretend to be. Behind costumes and fake blood, we play with fear. But some people don’t need to wear a mask to look like that. Especially when we talk about toxicity, sexism, and possession. And this is exactly what Mexican indie artist MAUMAUMAU points out in his latest single, “Prey,” released on Halloween. We are constantly surrounded by bleak news: violence, cruelty, abuse, and sometimes feminicides. For many women, fear isn’t a Halloween thing; it’s part of their daily life. Because sometimes masculinity becomes too heavy, too dominating, until it breaks what was supposed to be love. And often, everything starts long before the first act of violence. There are signs, small details, that reveal toxicity before it explodes. It’s a matter of mentality and manipulation. It’s when boys, maybe as a joke, start thinking of women as prey, when girls become just bodies, without names or faces.
As Mau sings in his track, “Just another body, but she didn’t notice,” he embodies that kind of man: the one who likes to show strength, power, and control. The one who believes he’s every girl’s dream, who thinks his presence is enough to conquer whoever he wants. He hides behind charm and confidence; he loves to be in disguise. But what lies underneath is something darker. Mau describes “Prey” as “a trip,” one full of changes in mood and atmosphere. “It was a fun challenge to write and an even bigger challenge to produce,” he says, crediting co-producer Fernando Familiar. The track’s unease mirrors its message: men who present perfection on the surface but hide damage beneath it. “Prey” is, in Mau’s words, “a bit of an art piece. One for me, honestly. I wanted to be vulnerable and share a topic that is hard to discuss but necessary, especially as a man.” His goal wasn’t to moralise, but to reflect. “Prey is intended to start conversations, even if it’s just about the musicality.” That tension — between beauty and discomfort, between listening and understanding — runs through every second of the song.
Mau felt the urge to write about this because the myth that sexism and domestic violence belong to another era persists. We like to believe that things are better now, that equality has arrived, that hatred has somehow faded away. But it hasn’t. It’s simply adapted. Women now have the power to express their voices. Social media and activism have given visibility to what was once hidden. But that visibility has also provoked anger. Many men, stripped of the control they once enjoyed, are responding with quieter forms of aggression. Their prey now speaks, reacts, and exposes, and that reversal of power leaves them lost. So predatory behaviour mutates. Ghosting, manipulation, harassment — the language of domination survives, only translated into digital form. “Prey” captures exactly that transformation. The track moves between calm and tension, shifting like the unstable mind of the men it depicts. There’s a sense of chaos under control, of emotions on the verge of bursting. Mau uses sound as psychology, showing how instability hides beneath confidence.
What makes “Prey” powerful is that it doesn’t only speak to women. It also addresses men — not to shame, but to make them see. The question Mau leaves hanging in the song, “How are you going to sleep tonight?” isn’t just rhetorical. It’s an invitation to self-reflection, a reminder that denial doesn’t erase guilt. This is the kind of pop we need right now: music that doesn’t just entertain but disturbs, that stares at the world rather than smoothing its edges. “Prey” is a mirror of our time, one that reflects both the shadows and the courage it takes to face them. Mau’s voice doesn’t accuse; it observes. It captures what happens when charm turns into power, and power turns into fear. Some monsters wear smiles instead of masks. Some hide behind success, love, or the illusion of normality. But they exist, and they live closer than we like to think. “Prey” reminds us that real horror doesn’t come from fiction — it breathes quietly, in plain sight.