The Pop Corporation

What is MGK, or Machine Gun Kelly, if you prefer. To most, he’s that tattooed guy in the gossip columns who says things like he’s ‘part alien’, and seemed to be in a relationship with Megan Fox that screamed ‘we saw you across the room, liked your vibe, and would you like to come back to ours for some performative vanilla sex that’s dressed up edgily’.

That might be unfair, but when you court the tabloids, people reduce you to shorthand versions of what they fleetingly see, without really getting stuck into whatever it is you do.

We’re aware of some vaguely alternative rock sounding pop, much like we hear from the likes of YUNGBLUD – a sort of melange of Noughties Skater grot chic and Billy Idol pop-rock with a wacky sneer. Now shortened to simply mgk, for some reason, we’re looking at an album called ‘Lost Americana’, which sees us gazing at the cover artwork of the artist in a Marlboro Reds coat displaying the title, which must be something to do with America, Americans analysing themselves, the Stadium Country renaissance, and *mildly gestures arms around at everything*, right?

Now, it seems like we’re not dealing with the sharpest spoon in the drawers here, but that hasn’t stopped us enjoying people’s music before. Alternative Himbos have made a very decent career for themselves over the years, not least in the Elvis Presley and Jim Morrisson route, which basically requires a pair of leather trousers and amplified guitars to get everyone’s motor running.

And so, to the music which is racking up the streams like nobody’s business, waiting for critics to hack lumps out of it, to the chagrin of fans and cohorts, fuel for future tracks about ‘haters’. With ‘Cliché’, a country-pop thing, which kicks off with “tell me, would you wait for me? Baby, I’m a rolling stone – I got a lotta right in me, but I don’t wanna say this wrong,” which kinda sounds like it means something, and is ear-wormy enough, like one of those country Post Malone tracks.

This whole schtick of ‘baby, I’m troubled and I’ve fucked up’ permeates through the LP, which isn’t surprising given that it was written about a sticky period in the artist’s life, where he announced Megan Fox’s pregnancy, and weeks later, a break-up thanks to him not being able to keep his dick in his pants, then falling off the wagon and rehab.

Keep in mind that Bob Dylan – out of absolutely nowhere – posted an old video of mgk freestyling on his Instagram, it is fair to say that his life has been weird in the past few years, even if you wonder if there’s much going on behind those eyes of his.

What is in there, is American Rock Radio, and on this album, his going through the iPod Shuffle of his mind, and seemingly touching on Tom Petty, pop punk, country rock, and whatever else they’re listening to in this White Boy Summer state of mind. ‘Vampire Diaries’ is basically ’80s Classic Roots Rock if it hooked up with Sum 41. That’s probably a good thing for a good number of people, but the whole thing feels so thinly spread, you’d do well to remember what it sounds like while you’re actively trying to listen to it.

All the while, there’s a sense of the boy who wanted you to know he drank blood that one time, or whatever, keenly trying to make you get a sense of him being weird and things are fucked up maaaaan, all served up in pretty conservative rock ‘n’ roll. Like, there’s zero danger to be had listening to ‘Lost Americana’ – no sharp turns, no drops, no violence.

The only real surprises is when you listen to the content of his words. Without a shred of irony, self-awareness, we’re treated to the following: “Living fantasy like J.K. Rowling – I’m J.R.R. Tolkien these spliffs.” What on earth are you supposed to say about that when presumably, this poor boy is really trying to tell you something about the state of the United States of America, or whatever.

Maybe we’re never going to understand the appeal of this album, though. There’s legions of people out there, happily going to Red Hot Chilli Pepper shows, and actively asking the DJ to play Sugar Ray tracks at their weddings – you suspect you might mention either of these bands dismissively to this guy, and he’d drag you to his bedroom to jump around on his bed while showing off his collection of landfill rock t-shirts.

It’s almost adorable. Should we just be letting him have his fun, even if the whole thing is completely bewildering to us?

There’s moment where you want to console this poor child, such as “I’m a functioning junkie turning my life around”, which is how these bad lads woo you, so be on your guard. Sure, this poor kid – 35 years old, you should know – has had it bad, but you can’t help but look at his little knuckleheaded face and wonder if he’s survived this long by sheer force of idiocy?

Look, one thing is certainly true of this album – Machine Gun Kelly has clearly really tried his best. He was aiming for radio-friendly, classic American rock, and broadly, that’s what it sounds like. You can say the same of someone like Benson Boone as well, of course, being the Disney version of mgk’s image. They’re ostensibly the same thing, and sure, you might find yourself tapping your fingers to them when they appear on your radio, but they don’t stand up to much scrutiny.

And maybe that’s our failing – bubblegum is fine, and all. Why approach a fluff piece, even if it’s trying to be taken seriously, with a scalpel?

Some of it stomps, some of it will be emptily anthemic come touring time, and if that’s enough for you, then sure, give this album a spin. If you’re wondering if Artificial Intelligence can make music like humans do, then on the strength of this, we’re fucked.