WOR$T GIRL is most successful as an argument for Slayyyter’s abrasive style, but the record also contains some of her most painfully and finely rendered human emotion to date.
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WOR$T GIRL is most successful as an argument for Slayyyter’s abrasive style, but the record also contains some of her most painfully and finely rendered human emotion to date.
Concise and packed with intention, SLAYYYYTER’s new album is forceful and focussed.
Slayyyter certainly cribs from many of her dance influences on WOR$T GIRL IN AMERICA, she never fails to make them her own.
Giggling through the chaos of the past 13 tracks as psychedelic dream-pop fills in the gaps, we can’t help but give in to the cinematic peak of ‘Wor$t Girl In America’, touching us the way all good movies do.
It’s a miraculous album because it rises above pop star rules through an infectious collapse of ego. It’s ugly, gritty, tense, and uninspirational – everything that a pop star isn’t. It’s the sound of a true hunger, a last-ditch effort with real stakes.
The sum of these adrenaline-fueled parts is the kind of music that the vampires in Blade might listen to before Wesley Snipes shows up to chop them to pieces. Such feral, pummeling peaks are, necessarily, tempered with the chiller beats and dreamier synths of tracks like “Gas Station” and “Unknown Loverz,” which serve to steady your pulse between bouts of head-banging.
WOR$T GIRL is most successful as an argument for Slayyyter’s abrasive style, but the record also contains some of her most painfully and finely rendered human emotion to date.
Concise and packed with intention, SLAYYYYTER’s new album is forceful and focussed.
Slayyyter certainly cribs from many of her dance influences on WOR$T GIRL IN AMERICA, she never fails to make them her own.
Giggling through the chaos of the past 13 tracks as psychedelic dream-pop fills in the gaps, we can’t help but give in to the cinematic peak of ‘Wor$t Girl In America’, touching us the way all good movies do.
It’s a miraculous album because it rises above pop star rules through an infectious collapse of ego. It’s ugly, gritty, tense, and uninspirational – everything that a pop star isn’t. It’s the sound of a true hunger, a last-ditch effort with real stakes.
The sum of these adrenaline-fueled parts is the kind of music that the vampires in Blade might listen to before Wesley Snipes shows up to chop them to pieces. Such feral, pummeling peaks are, necessarily, tempered with the chiller beats and dreamier synths of tracks like “Gas Station” and “Unknown Loverz,” which serve to steady your pulse between bouts of head-banging.
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