●●○○○
Nicole Dollanganger is always disarming. Her voice is childlike and startling when paired with lyrics like: “He calls me his crocodile tears while I’m chained up to the bed.” The cover for Natural Born Losers, depicting a punk in a gimp mask against a floral background, serves as a warning in and of itself of her sickly-sweet style.
Since 2012, Dollanganger’s reputation has grown on the internet thanks to stripped-down covers of Marilyn Manson and her frank descriptions of sex. Seven Bandcamp releases later, she’s now co-signed with Grimes’ new label and touring with her across the States.
Despite being Canadian, Dollanganger’s obsession with the Deep South permeates through every track on the album. Throughout there are references to rifles, religion, “white trash” and even the electric chair. Her lyrics often seem to mirror Lana Del Rey’s brand of broken American dream—but Dollanganger makes Del Rey seem tame by comparison.
The opening half of the album sets the scene: Poacher’s Pride eases previous listeners into her new, cleaner sound, while maintaining links to previous releases with images of taxidermy and killing angels. Mean describes Dollanganger’s cop fantasies, while on White Trashing she croons about “Plastic Jesus, Santa Claus, rotting like relics in the yard.” The listener is transported to a neon-lit small-town at midnight. However, like night-time, the first half of the album is sleepy and all begins to blend into one.
By Executioner, Dollanganger just about shakes the listener awake, with fuzzy chords and a haunting narrative: “He’ll strap you in and you will fry, like fireworks on the Fourth of July.” The album’s highlight is a rework of an old song, Angels of Porn (II). This number fully utilises the available production to add more impact with a beat and layered guitars. It really is a triumph that shows what this album could’ve been.
You’re So Cool and American Tradition return to the formula of high school romances: “wild eyes, they are black, like the Magic 8 Ball.” But by now, one has heard it all before—and many times in better ways from Dollanganger herself (see her album Ode to Dawn Wiener).
The charm that first brought her fame isn’t smothered by a studio’s involvement. In fact, the studio isn’t really utilised at all. This is the major flaw of the album. With waves of rolling drums and distorted riffs, Dollanganger’s sound feels more coloured-in than her previous bedroom recordings—but only just. These added arrangements wane fast as they are all too similar throughout.
This problem was present on previous recordings, but Dollanganger’s lyrics were enough to keep one interested. Now, her nightmarish stories are stale. There are only so many times that scenes of torture can be used for shock value. They alone can’t add enough tang to hide the fact that most of these tracks haven’t developed on from previous work. Dollanganger’s creepy nymphet appeal was best when it was deliberately simple—with just her, a guitar and a laptop.
