Once an infrequent alt-pop star, she’s finally broken through via her stage presence and ability to craft a shiny banger. 2023’s lukewarm LP THINK LATER relied on generic pop tropes, but recent singles have sharpened her vision – “It’s ok I’m ok” and “2 hands” were bombastic, but “Sports car” was score-settling. So Close To What, her third album, is a sleek and flirty collection that proves “greedy” was no fluke.
It’s clear what McRae pulls from, and it’s very welcome. She’s a mix of early Britney and 90s Janet, an athlete who can keep up with the performing likes of Tinashe with the easy sensuality from all of the above. So Close To What’s most obvious callback, “Sports car”, is a mix of Nelly Furtado and Timbaland’s early-aughts output by way of “Buttons” by The Pussycat Dolls – and it’s gripping. The shimmery, Y2K gold she tastefully employs (“2 hands”, “Miss possessive”, “Signs”) uses the big beats of Danity Kane or Britney while modernizing for a throwback-hungry crowd. It might not be the most inventive, but it’s fun as hell.
THINK LATER lacked the depth and energy to be a fully realized record, but So Close To What comes back swinging. RCA got some moodboards out to define Tate McRae, and they’ve succeeded; these are fifteen dance-pop and R&B songs that, sure, often lack story, but are gems in their own right. The harmonies are strong, the melodies are slick; each track feels crystallized. She hops around a Jersey club beat to dish on a toxic relationship on “Revolving door” and rolls her eyes at luxury gifts on “2 hands,” but her leash can tighten or relax at ease. She’s both Miss Possessive (“Keep your eyes off him”) and a chill girl — “You can have him anyway,” she shrugs on “It’s ok I’m ok”, relinquishing control with ease.
Some songs even reflect a growing maturity from the 21-year-old. “I’m supposed to be an adult, but fuck it, I need a minute” she says on “Revolving door”, the realization part of the healing. With her bouncy persona, you’d never know she’s “more hurt than I would admit.” The logic on “Means I care” is pretty weak, that being cutting someone off right as feelings develop, but to hear her whimper “It’s not what I want, it’s just all I know” suggests her behavior isn’t so simple. Some sweeping early Lana Del Rey strings begin “Purple laced bra”, dissecting her charm’s double-edged sword: the guy pays attention when her clothes are off, but is that all he sees of her? “Giving you head’s the only time you think I got depth,” she says, strikingly vulnerable (and funny). She’s melancholy and tender, investigating her own physical beauty; amidst the album’s fly-girl attitude, it’s an arresting moment.
Tate McRae has never been Canada’s Poet Laureate, and looking closer at the songs reveals some lyrical clunkers. The rush of “Sports car” can’t feign the slight silliness of reasoning, “No you ain’t got a missus / But you got a sports car”, as if the two are mutually exclusive. She convinces herself “No I’m not in love” on the deluded satire that runs out the joke too quick: “I’m not bothered looking up your exes / Matter of fact, we could probably be friendses,” she sings, barely making it work. The wistful guitar that opens “Nostalgia” leads to a generic chorus where she wonders, “Where does the time go? You never really know.” It’s a bummer of a closing track after such a rapid-fire record, like Taylor Swift closing reputation with “New Years Day.” But remember “2 hands”, where she says, “They’re just words, they don’t mean much,” a comment that reads as distinctly untrue in broader society, but works within the Tate McRae oeuvre. Does it really matter what she’s saying if you’re dancing?
Not to say she doesn’t sell it each time. “Signs”, “Greenlight”, and “bloodonmyhands” are all big, commanding numbers; she devours their runtimes. Even the relative simplicity of “Sports car” or “It’s ok I’m ok” doesn’t detract from the energy she has in the recording booth and in front of the camera. Even if the video for “Sports car” comes across as a little stilted – this girl should be killing a dance break, not propped up on four-foot-tall heels – the lilt in her voice as she says, “I think you know what this is” is persuasive. Her other videos are high-glam, fishing for icon status, but when she’s getting arrested wearing nothing but a police cap and thigh-highs, it’s hard to argue otherwise.
With the problem of vision squelched, her biggest obstacle is enunciation – songs like “Means I care” or “bloodonmyhands” are basically unintelligible. But it’s easily fixable, and at the very least, a little charming. So Close To What’s minor issue is variety – more creativity (like the high of “Sports car”, or even the low of “Nostalgia”) would be welcome in an album that mostly stays in its lane.
Tate McRae has formed. This is a collection both provocative and vigorous, covered in a sleek wrapper that hides the introspective side lurking beneath. So Close To What is hit after hit – it’s her most convincing argument of superstardom yet.
