Rebecca Black prioritises imitation on SALVATION

The teen star broke out with “Friday”, which was subject to the early-internet vitriol and misogyny totally mismatched from the source of anger. It was a terrible song, sure, but not worthy of national attention.

Surprisingly, she continued forging her path in music, releasing a sign-of-the-times EP RE / BL in 2017. But her second ascent was in 2021, when she re-released “Friday” with a slate of bizarre guests – Dorian Electra, Big Freedia, and 3OH!3 – produced by Dylan Brady, one-half of the duo 100 gecs. It was irritating, brash, a wink and nudge at how cloying the original was – while still bolstering it with hyperpop’s main tenets: noise for the sake of noise. Stamped with the debut album Let Her Burn, her catty, electric pivot was transparent, a personality costume in lieu of one.

Her second album, SALVATION, does nothing to amend previous errors of facelessness. The seven songs careen and rattle towards different moods and energies, using eccentricity as a prop instead of a perk. You can discern “Sugar Water Cyanide” from its separate parts – a rumbling bass that turns deadly, sweet-as-sugar delivery, a cloying, pitched-up vocal – but together, it’s confused, unsure of where to turn. The disastrous “TRUST!” attempts to position herself as a club diva, but its glory is shortlived. Her whips, samples, and deadpan delivery all attempt to convince the listener of the song’s importance, but it doesn’t even seem like she’s buying it when yelling, “Ugh, your moan is my favourite song.” Its misguidedness is, at least, entertaining, but the recent pop pandering (Kesha’s “JOYRIDE”, Katy Perry’s “WOMAN’S WORLD”) is getting old.

Which is not to say that the project is a disaster – you wouldn't blame a directionless driver following a faulty GPS. “Do You Even Think About Me?” is when all the segments come together the best to create something that, finally, is thrilling. She placates herself with the idea that her ex is floundering without her (“Kinda hope I left a black hole in your life”) while coming to terms that it might be the opposite – they might have forgotten about her entirely. The beat is throbbing and horrific as she questions her own insignificance – it’s quite an interesting idea. But it’s contrasted by “American Doll”, the album’s biggest clunker, which throws disastrously glib lines at the wall with a droll chorus. “Get what you pay on video / So feminine, so touchable / Sweet suicide in a minidress / Learned how to love from the internet,” she sings, which doesn’t really mean anything. “She’ll take your compliments and spit them out,” she ends the song, as if it’s menacing, or, even, a feminist thing to do.

“Tears In My Pocket” attempts to instill a sense of urgency with its rumbling bass and metallic synths, but falls flat on its face. “Twist The Knife” is a Kim Petras TURN OFF THE LIGHT redux (she even sounds frighteningly like her), but its lyrics read as cheap Halloween party fodder: “Can't look behind me or the ghosts will only follow me home… / Buried alive in this grave, I can't let you get away / Feed the feminine calling.” The title track tries even harder (“You think I’m on fire, but the fire feels like paradise”) but it’s a little easier to listen to.

At present, Rebecca Black is the Marnie Michaels of the music industry: trying everything but achieving little, her self-image distorted by what she thinks others want. I hate to contribute more to her critical pile-on, but it genuinely doesn’t seem like she’s heavily invested in this music anyway. The record is certainly sparkly, but its hollowness is glaring. SALVATION is so desperate for someone to call it iconic that it neglects what makes an icon anyway – personality.