Slayyyter’s third full-length, Wor$t Girl in America, is a diamond-hard jawbreaker of a pop record, a totally self-immolating blaze of glory, a final roar before extinction.
For her ninth studio album, Sexistential, she’s decided that a victory lap is in order.
The Dare’s What’s Wrong With New York? is euphoric, massive, funny, blissfully unironic, and finally real male pop. I wouldn’t overthink it.
Brat is next-level Charli XCX, a miracle and an instant classic. It’s the kind of album that makes you feel lucky to be alive at the same time as it.
Special is such a disappointment because you can hear the better album she’s capable of – but she insists on digging her heels in to crank out one-size-fits-all empowerment jams that can’t be resonating with anyone beyond someone just getting back to the elliptical for the first time in a year.
On Troubled Paradise, Slayyyter strips the cynicism from hyperpop, invokes the best parts of the last generation of pop powerhouses, and fills the void in culture left by the last time Katy Perry went #1.
Though Chemtrails Over the Country Club isn’t quite Lana Del Rey's strongest album or the most iconically Lana, it’s an intimate, emotional, and largely successful renewal of her artistic vows.
Demidevil is poised to keep her relentlessly populating the feed in 2021, and with some impressively strong new bangers to boot. But it'll be crucial for Ashnikko to remember the difference between Nicki Minaj and the iLOVEFRiDAYs of the world.
Think of Smile as Katy Perry doing the work to (eventually) get her groove back: she's recharging. Smile plays like a necessary centering exercise, indulging her insecurities and less surefire instincts.
Ho, Why Is You Here? shares DNA with Playboi Carti's Die Lit: an effortlessly curated, expertly engineered portal into a world of cash, confidence, and your hair to your ass.
That Kid's Crush stands out for its immediacy as a collection of light-hearted party music, but the project struggles with facelessness.
Dua Lipa's Future Nostalgia is near immaculate meta-pop that refuses to forego tight songwriting for nostalgic bells and whistles, helmed by a singer is exponentially more aware of what she's capable of.
Ironically, you may wind up wishing that her scorched Earth was a bit more, well, fun.
Kesha's fourth album, High Road, struggles to find something interesting about her new flask-toting flower child persona.
As an effort to create a world where Juicy Couture lockets are prized amulets and the Playboy mansion grotto is a historic mecca, Slayyyter is a highly successful, succinct debut.