Rebecca Black has been trying to do the impossible over the past decade and a half: recognise the importance of her genesis moment that propelled her to fame while also trying to move on from it. And when it’s fame as singular as Black’s, it’s a tricky line to toe; how do you healthily re-live a tirade of derision while also showcasing yourself as a serious and legitimate musician? After all, “Friday” is still a meme that’s thrown about in popular culture (see the recent series of Rick & Morty, where no less than Jerry is singing along to the track in a carefree moment but also while, um, overtaken by worms). Black throws in a version of her unintentional hit “Friday” during the start of the setlist in her live shows, but follows it up immediately with her recent music. If the audience experiences whiplash, then that’s intentional. She is no longer the bright-eyed but awkward teenager she was in 2011, but according to her new album, Age of the Exhibitionist, she is now “the woman that my mother wanted me to be”.
And what mother wouldn’t want to see her child thriving, creating the music that they want, and fully embracing who they are? Age of the Exhibitionist is unrelenting in these regards, even if it’s not necessarily successful as a memorable pop album. It’s unabashedly queer and horny as hell; the feverish arousal is dialled up, even compared to last year’s titillated but hollow SALVATION. Her music videos help (where Black contributes as a star and a creative director), all the prurient choreography, high fashion, and palpable sexual energy on show. Unlike her long-awaited but somewhat disappointing debut album Let Her Burn, Black doesn’t get caught up on trying to prove herself to anyone on Age of the Exhibitionist and instead focuses on her own growth and evolution, becoming the new version of herself.
And this “new” version of Black wants to be perceived. One of the loose thematic threads running through the album (alongside a bare bones semi-autobiographical tale of Black’s beginnings in Anaheim, California to the version of stardom she enjoys today) is her take on what, in the world of Rebecca Black, is an exhibitionist. Is it performance that steers into voyeurism? See the hypersexual come-ons as she looks back outside the window to eyes staring in on “Exhibitionism”. Is it social masking as a means of performance in the face of an ex? “Corsetry” has that covered. Is it perhaps not-so-subtle advertising for giant tech companies? The way “Metamorphia” repeats the word “Meta” over and over feels gross and like bad subliminal messaging. Or is it just Black’s way of processing the fact she is part of a generation that is chronically online? “I do it because I have this deep-connected need to be understood and seen,” she explained in a recent interview with People magazine, eking out a human thread lost in noise and sound.
For what it is worth, Black does feel much more at home here than on previous outings, even if there are clunkers along the way. When she occasionally hits on a silver-plated chorus, she’s making challenges for headroom against her peers – even if she has to emulate their style to do so. “Love me tonight, then leave in the morning,” she sings on “Metamorphia”, doing her best Lady Gaga impression. “Michael.” (funnily enough inspired by Gaga’s fiancé, Michael Polansky) aims for Kylie Minogue-like bliss with its disco thump, but feels like a backdrop for SNL skit without the jokes. With its marching band bass beat “Anaheim Star” tries to be its own “Hollaback Girl”, replacing flair with a hyperpop lyrical nod to Guns N’ Roses’ “Paradise City”. And “Miss Delicious” is Black going for her own take on “Fergalicious”, which arguably nobody ever needed to do.
The best moments are when she finds something that feels like her own: “Hot Wet Delirious” carries over the oily sensuality of “Crumbs” and it suits her well, the low-lights and sludgy synths matching the restless lust in the lyrics; and “Waschesalon” has her conjuring up an imaginary club and accompanying industrial Europop anthem, veering into a “Sandstorm”-like EDM (and showing how ripe the track is for future remixing).
Also welcome is when she gives the finger to critics and haters, namely because it shows a brief modicum of humanity and a setting that isn’t just “horny”. “Just made a million off my so-called mediocrity,” she taunts with a confrontational tone on “Waschesalon” while she tugs gently at a thread of analysis on “Anaheim Star” (“Demoralize me and change my name / How far I’ll go once you gave me a taste / You villainize me, but we’re the same”) before leaving the point alone and ending the track. They are rare insights but against egregious lyrical stumbles (“I’m ex bi-curious / Now I’m try-sexual / Made a girl my boyfriend / Her dad’s traditional”) and chorus that hit the listener over the head in fear of any subtlety flourishing (“Exhibitionism”, “Miss Delicious”), they are enough to keep Age of the Exhibitionist from being entirely vacuous.
“This is really about redefining something for myself,” Black explains of her album, and the best way to enjoy it is by keeping this in mind. She’s best when she’s biting and throwing her all at a good chorus, but it’s also great to see her being gay and horny as hell, making music for the spaces she wants to occupy. Age of the Exhibitionist might not serve up on all the promise that Let Her Burn dwindled, and it’s far from any kind of bonafide classic, but – whether you care for it or not – it’s undoubtedly another Rebecca Black album.
“I got the life I always wanted,” she remarks on “Backstage Baby Interlude”. She’s where she wants to be, and that’s worth something. Whether her time as the exhibitionist is an age or just a phase will come to light. There’s still some awkwardness hanging over from her early days, but that’s part of growth – part of evolution. For now, it’s not so much a case of “let her burn”, but “let her grow”.
