So "CRANK" comes on and all of a sudden Slayyyter seems to be on the verge of making good on what the record bends over backward trying to convince listeners it is: trash as art, elevation and elaboration of dance so refracted that it becomes a new thing altogether, a white-girl-wasted version of The Money Store.
If there's a hyperpop moment on this thing it's on "CRANK," a song that collapses about 40 years of club and rave music into three genuinely sexy, genuinely arresting, genuinely thrilling minutes of something new. It isn't to be. "GAS STATION" and "UNKNOWN LOVERZ" confirm it, "I'M ACTUALLY KINDA FAMOUS" solidifies it. At worst, this is bog-standard late-stage capitalism dance music, a brat aftershock. On average, it's making the same jokes that the Chainsmokers made back before they started getting high on their own supply. At its peak, it reimagines hardcore as a techno, and techno as hardcore, threatening to be the new John Waters for a post-social-media generation.
I'm not mad, I'm just disappointed. Slayyyter would tell me that's the point, but we'd both know she's lying.
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