ALBUM REVIEW: mgk – ‘lost americana’

The worst thing about all of mgk’s recent genre ‘experiments’ is how every one has felt entirely reactive. Chances are he wouldn’t have moved to pop-punk had he not been embarrassed out of hip-hop; he would’ve likely stayed in pop-punk, too, if he hadn’t realised (too late) that no one wanted him there either. Perhaps that’s why his threats to move into country barely manifested, after his Jelly Roll collaboration Lonely Road wasn’t any good in the slightest. After that, unsurprisingly, mgk has struggled to get a foothold anywhere. His generally horrible genre : sadboy release with Trippie Redd might have signified another try at hip-hop, but the scattered follow-up singles have been trying to re-establish bases everywhere.

It would suggest that mgk really has no idea what to do now, reinforced by cliché as the lead single from lost americana being a straight-up pop song. And that’s true as a whole—above anything else, lost americana is a pop album. At least there’s less cultural sacrilege to this newest bout of vultury, and it’s not even like this is mgk’s biggest sellout swing to date. Remember bloom in 2017, an era that was still in the ‘rap bruiser’ portion of the timeline that welcomed team-ups with Camila Cabello and Little Mix? But even then, you have to wonder how much of even this comes from true volition. This is mgk we’re talking about here, who’s long been unable to sell the persona of a serious musician who cares about the integrity of his craft. Even this new moniker rebrand screams of nothing more than market-tested fine-tuning (because there’s no equivalent to ‘unalive’ for the word ‘gun’, presumably).

To get the obvious out of the way first, try as he might to convince anyone (and likely himself) of it, mgk is not a pop ‘star’. There’s an amount of aptitude that needs to be met to reach that, and on lost americana, it just isn’t there. He’s still a bad singer as he moans flatly with his surly demeanour in tow, and trying to shout and exude power on dont wait run fast is particularly far outside of his skillset. There also isn’t any degree of calibration, likely to fall under the hard-livin’ heartland-pop blanket. That in particular is as obvious as it comes, which may be par for the course for mgk, but can make this feel like just as much of a put-on as before. Before the first song outlaw overture is even over, mgk opines how he “[feels] just like James Dean”; later, “dazed and confused” is a conspicuous drop in the chorus of miss sunshine, while starman rips the entirety of its chorus from Third Eye Blind’s Semi-Charmed Life. This isn’t so much ‘lost’ Americana as a new series of predetermined personality values, spitting out a new persona for mgk to co-opt.

But here’s the thing—out of everything in his recent years of prominence, this is probably where he’s been the most believable. Or, rather, the most believable at selling it. Compared to his stints playing a pop-punk teenager in his early 30s or an erstwhile ‘rap devil’ just before, being bland, corny but sincere enough is an improvement. For as little on this album requires a trailer where Actual Bob Dylan calls it a “personal excavation of the American dream,” it’s not the same kind of phenomenal flame-out as bloom or mainstream sellout, either. Even if you don’t particularly like it (and there are plenty of reasons why you mightn’t), the silver lining is that it’s the least that mgk has outright embarrassed himself in many years.

Granted, there’s an element of subjectivity to even that when songs like cliché and vampire diaries enter the fray. The former is a piece of disposable pop fluff that seems to think claiming that title is carte blanche to say nothing of weight; the latter is the closest thing to a pop-punk carryover the album has, with an “I hate my hometown” thrust that artists of a certain age should really learn to grow out of. cliché is especially flimsy but neither are high art, and they’re indicative of how narrow and small the focus of lost americana can be. If outlaw overture seeks to set a tone with its two distinct movements (and the inelegant mashing together of such), there’s at least some more adventurousness hinted at.

Among the mottled, poorly-upkept garden of mgk’s catalogue, though, they’re fine. There have been worse sins committed in this man’s name than a pair of inessential but generally redeemable cuts; emo girl is right there, y’know! And it’s not like lost americana is as overt with its incompetence or stupidity. Rarely does it feel like mgk’s hubris is getting the better of him, as he’s insulated by the warmer, classically-styled pop-rock that makes total failure too difficult for even him. That’s not to say he doesn’t get close, as seen on the leaden, joyless Foo Fighters impression of dont wait run fast. There’s also indigo which feels like a leftover from Hotel Diablo than anything belonging here—a straight-up rap cut mired in bleary murk with phem’s ghostly presence for backup. That in itself isn’t the worst, but using it as a vehicle for “Living fantasy like J.K. Rowling / I’m J.R.R. Tolkien these spliffs, I love smoking” is inexcusable.

Beyond that, lost americana isn’t the sort of album you get too aggrieved at. It’s just not worth it for as small and mid-range as it typically feels, even finding that tipping into enjoyable-enough moments. starman might exist exclusively to parade its balls of steel for its interpolation, but if nothing else, you’re reminded of how much Third Eye Blind cooked with Semi-Charmed Life, even after it’s been stripped for parts. Other earworms are a lot less timeless, though the run of vampire diaries, miss sunshine and sweet coraline is a lode acutely balanced between saccharine, consistent and, occasionally, impossible to scrub away.

To find where lost americana stands out the most, though, you have to wait until the end to a shockingly good portrayal of mgk’s abilities that must’ve been so deep in his locker, it took nearly a decade to fish them out. Of the album’s final three tracks, cant stay here is the least special, though genuine emotional resonance evocative of Semisonic’s Closing Time is an easy sell. But then there’s the slightly overwrought but stark, brutal honesty of treading water, and the closing ballad orpheus that’s written with tact and delicacy, and actually sees mgk putting in the effort to sing well! It can be staggering when it wants to be, even if it does reinforce some frankly incredible unevenness besetting lost americana. On the same album in which mgk makes a bad weed pun from J.R.R. Tolkien’s name, he’s referencing Greek myths of Orpheus and Eurydice. ‘Jarring’ isn’t the half of it, but that’s exponentially preferable to no effort at all. Bottom-heavy sequencing can be forgiven when mgk is operating this far above his usual standard.

And that’s not to oversell lost americana as a whole, because it doesn’t quite deserve that. The bulk of inspiration is collated into that final leg; elsewhere is the lightweight meandering of an artist playing it safe and satisfactory. Still, compared to album after album of failure-to-launch genre-hopping, a pitstop into likable, somewhat-earnest equilibrium is hard to come down too heavily on. A simple lack of cynicism from mgk is respite in itself, where he’s not all-in on the most facile character creation and can instead work more reasonably. So is this a sign of things to come, then? An artistic turning point where mgk isn’t an embarrassing nuisance towards alternative music? Well, that’s jumping the gun a tad, but it’s nice to have that as an option for a change.

For fans of: Yungblud, Jelly Roll, Alex Warren

‘lost americana’ by mgk is out now on 19XX / Interscope Records.

Words by Luke Nuttall