Tate McRae Fades into the Background on So Close to What

Press around Tate McRae’s third album So Close to What keeps heralding her as the next Britney Spears—so much so that our Y2K pop queen herself ended up interviewing the up-and-comer for V Magazine. But aside from McRae’s insane dancing talent and the sexier tracks on the new record, the similarities between the two end there. People forget that Britney had actual hooks—and you could understand what she was singing. McRae, on the other hand, sounds like she’s vocalizing around a half-chewed bite of pancakes still marinating in her mouth. I would call So Close to What aggressively mediocre, but aggressively implies a certain amount of energy or passion which this music severely lacks. With a few exceptions, McRae’s latest album is decidedly mid. 

“Miss possessive” is a somewhat promising start; over a mischievous, snappy beat, McRae offers up her version of the jealous girlfriend song. It’s no “The Boy Is Mine,” but it’s catchy and serviceable, and definitely taps into that Y2K sound she claims to be inspired by. “2 hands” invites you to groove along with a decent hook and a much better music video as McRae pleads for her partner to forget his presents and empty words—all she needs is his touch. The standout track by far is “Sports car,” which channels the sexiness of “Buttons” by The Pussycat Dolls and “Wait (The Whisper Song)” by the Ying Yang Twins. One of my main complaints about McRae is her enunciation, or lack thereof, but on the whispered chorus of “Sports car,” you hear her loud and clear as she tells a would-be hookup what she wants to do with him. Even the slightly childish euphemism on the refrain (“Oh, but you got a sports car / We can uh-uh in it”) can be forgiven because this song simply works. I highly recommend the music video, in which an anonymous hooded figure watches the pop artist try out different personas through a one-way mirror, à la a peep show—and in the end, it’s been McRae looking at herself the whole time. It’s a clever commentary on the various facades public figures adopt in order to market themselves. 

But outside of these tracks—which, by the way, are good but not great—nearly everything else blends into a miasma of nasal, mumbled lyrics about love affairs and submerged-sounding R&B-adjacent pop melodies. There is simply nothing here to grasp onto—no memorable hooks, no insightful lyricism, no captivating production choices; the word that comes to mind is soupy. “Revolving door” is like musical edging, with a fast beat that builds to a whole lot of nothing, while not even a key change can save the dullness of “Signs.” The latter track also falls into old tropes about women not saying what they mean, as McRae tells her partner, “Say, ‘I need space,’ don’t look at the door / ‘I hate you’ means ‘I need you more.’” If you’re going to try to revive early Y2K pop—which I would argue she doesn’t do here—at the very least update the pastiche and don’t fall into tired misogynist stereotypes. “Greenlight” just makes me wish I was listening to Lorde’s much better track of the same name, or Taylor Swift’s “Bad Blood,” which McRae references on the chorus (“Band-Aids and bullet holes don’t go”).

Then there’s “I know love,” featuring McRae’s current squeeze The Kid LAROI. His bars are some of the laziest I’ve heard in a while. Imagine you’re writing a song about your love and your partner’s contribution is, “We started off friends, how we end up here? I don’t know, but I don’t see no problems.” Wow, be still, my beating heart. But his nonchalant statement feels perfectly applicable for her music; it’s inoffensive, and its primary aim is for you to not turn it off. This makes sense when you think about McRae’s positioning as the next big thing in pop, likely to garner millions (if not billions) of streams on Spotify and the like. These are songs destined to be put on popular playlists and blend into the background. As I played McRae’s back catalog in preparation for this release, my husband commented that he felt like he was in a Shein ad. And it’s the truth—this is marketable music, designed to soundtrack myriad commercials. Perhaps the most accurate and damning assessment of McRae comes from X user @1R_1S, who dubbed her “the newest in a succession of host bodies for a malevolent retail pop demon flitting from girl to girl, carrying with it the same nasal voice, anonymous lyrics and production formulae.”  

There are a few moments where we see glimmers of what-could-have-been, certain reflections from McRae that, if the right songwriting team was working with her, could have been fleshed out into more compelling songs. “Purple lace bra” sees McRae frustrated with a partner who only pays attention to her “when [she’s] undressed.” She’s a pop star who’s been sexualized from a young age, and could just as easily be addressing the media at large when she sings, “’Cause my body positioning determines if you’re listenin’.” It’s disappointing, then, that the track has some seeds of engaging sonic ideas—grandiose strings from the start and starry synths on the bridge—that never go anywhere, instead sinking into the dullness of the rest of So Close to What. Album closer “Nostalgia” features some rare acoustic guitar, and while the melody is generic, we actually get a refreshing glimpse into McRae’s interiority as she sings about her family (“Daddy went to law school and could’ve been an architect / Now he’s turnin’ sixty and wonders where the big dream went”). 

Perhaps in a different timeline, McRae is in a group like Fifth Harmony or Little Mix, where she can slay during the dance bits and just throw in the occasional vocalization here and there. But in a world with pop girlies like Sabrina Carpenter, SZA, Olivia Rodrigo, Chappell Roan, Charli XCX, Dua Lipa and Ariana Grande, Tate McRae the solo artist simply feels superfluous.

Clare Martin is a cemetery enthusiast and Paste’s associate music editor.