Contemplations of mortality are often par for the course in pop music. Beneath the glitz and glamour, the sometimes deadly costs of fame and success never seem to be far behind. In 2009, Lady Gaga sang about the star-obsessed paparazzi as she simulated her own death at the MTV VMAs, swinging from the rafters while bleeding out. Nearly two decades later, Slayyyter likens herself to the late actress Brittany Murphy, and asks if her own face is “too disgusting for open casket.” In a modern zeitgeist that seems obsessed with puritanical ideals and clean-girl aesthetics, what kind of pop star uses three-and-a-half minutes of gritty pop bliss to imagine their own death? A damn good one, is the answer.
In all of its raucous glory, pop provocateur Slayyyter’s third album WOR$T GIRL IN AMERICA buzzes across 14 songs that lean electro-industrial at times, and bouncy and elastic at others. The result is an aggressive, euphoric pop catharsis that isn’t afraid to get gritty, existential, and in-your-face.
Emerging first as a hyperpop-adjacent, aughts-obsessed internet queen, and later morphing into a dance-pop seductress, Slayyyter’s take on contemporary pop has (somehow) been one of the genre’s best kept secrets for years. (Or, alternately, pop’s glittering standard for those in the know). Where her 2023 sophomore LP STARFUCKER tingled and flexed its glossy dance-pop surface, WOR$T GIRL throbs with a guttural ache at times reminiscent of recession-era electronic pop.
Slayyyter’s cool, unrivaled confidence is her sharpest asset on the album, which takes form in witty lines like “he wanna fuck Slayyyter, Richard, we should link later,” on the explosive “CRANK.” The opening clash of lead single “BEAT UP CHANEL$,” which immediately demands “money, drugs, chains on my chest, that vintage Celine,” asserts itself and jolts the listener, demanding their undivided attention. She’s also delightfully self-referential (“I think about money, drugs, chains on my chest,” on “$T. LOSER”), which is a swing few pop stars dare to take at all, and even fewer manage to pull off without sounding contrived. WOR$T GIRL wields the singer’s pen without breaking a sweat, and also delivers some of the most memorable one-liners in recent memory (“I get so gay off that tequila”).
The lyricism and production of WOR$T GIRL sound joined in a holy matrimony, knowing when to give the other the spotlight, and also when to demand it back. The album is packed with visceral textures, simultaneously harsh yet somehow soothing — like scratching an insatiable itch that refuses to be appeased. The synth croak of album opener “DANCE…” starts things slow and situates the listener just beneath the sonic surface, before abruptly revving it up with “BEAT UP CHANEL$,” which is an undeniable knockout of a pop song (graduations, weddings, funerals).
Slayyyter’s voice morphs and twists and chirps across the record, concealed beneath layers of echo and distortion, and crisply fluttering up scales in the next breath. The purring vocal glitch of her 2019 self-titled mixtape makes appearances, as do the creamy-smooth vocal inflections of STARFUCKER. WOR$T GIRL is less of an album that belongs on a neon-soaked dance floor, and is more suited for thrashing and head-banging in the sweat-soaked dark. In some ways, the record is a composite sketch of Slayyyer’s first three projects, but teems with fresh electro-industrial flares that urge immediate and violent catharsis. Only in moments like the mid-tempo “CANNIBALISM!” and surprisingly bubbly “UNKNOWN LOVERZ” does the record come out of the shadows and feel momentarily wobbly — like the lights abruptly turning on at a dark basement party.
Album closer “BRITTANY MURPHY.” is the moment at the end of the firework show when a cacophony of blinding lights coalesce, teasing the impending blackout. Slayyyter contemplates her own death, comparing herself to the song’s namesake. The track opens with a throbbing electric pulse before feeding in raw-sounding percussion and guitar. “Father, please forgive me for all my actions,” she pleads. “Say that I am in a better place/When you see my mother’s face/Please, just tell them all I did my best/When you lay it all to rest.” The song pushes the sonic needle of the record, incorporating new sounds and giving the LP one last brilliant flare like the camera flashes that blind the proverbial starlet. Through this lens, if Slayyyter must go down in infamy, she won’t depart without leaving the rest of us with something to talk about.
