WOR$T GIRL IN AMERICA

For a long time, Catherine Slater was hyperpop’s ultimate digital construct—a glossy, Y2K-obsessed cyborg built from dial-up tones and Bloghaus DNA. But on WOR$T GIRL IN AMERICA, she smashes the mainframe completely. This isn't just an album; it’s a beautifully toxic, leather-clad exorcism that drags early-2000s electroclash kicking and screaming into 2026.

From the second the distorted basslines of "Crank" kick in, it’s clear Slayyyter has abandoned the neon-lit dancefloors for something far darker and more primal. It feels less like a traditional pop record and more like an unauthorized after-hours rave in a derelict Berlin warehouse. The production here is wonderfully abrasive—think the jagged, analogue punk of early Peaches or Justice's most blown-out drafts, but weaponized with massive, industrial-grade pop hooks.

Yet, what really makes WOR$T GIRL IN AMERICA an absolute essential is the grit beneath the glitter. Beneath the brash, anti-popstar persona of being the "worst girl," there’s a staggering amount of blood on the tracks. The album plays like an intentional kiss-off to the industry, processing Midwest anxieties and burnout through a wall of noisy, red-lined synths. By the time you hit the devastatingly raw, comedown closer "Gas Station," the protective armor slips completely, leaving you with the most honest, vulnerable songwriting of her career.It is chaotic, sleazy, loud, and utterly brilliant. A career-defining masterclass in how to self-sabotage your way into making a pop masterpiece.