
Lauren Mayberry’s Vicious Creature is an ambitious, emotional debut that captures the artist’s personal and professional evolution. For fans of Chvrches, it might feel both familiar and jarringly different. Where her band perfected a blend of brooding synth-pop and weighty introspection, Mayberry’s solo effort trades that in for something both shinier and messier—a nostalgic dive into Y2K-era pop influences and a heartfelt, sometimes uneven exploration of self-discovery.
Right from the opening notes of Something in the Air, it’s clear Mayberry is shedding old skins. The track pulses with the shimmering harmonies of early All Saints, leaning into a softness that feels deliberate. Gone is the detached melancholy of her “sad robot” persona. Instead, Mayberry wears her emotions on her sleeve, pairing lyrics that dissect love, loss, and power dynamics with melodies that seem plucked straight from a teenage mixtape. The dichotomy is striking: a seasoned artist indulging in the kind of unabashedly catchy music she felt compelled to suppress in her early years.
This duality defines Vicious Creature, for better and worse. On the surface, it’s a lush pop record, rich with hooks and polished production courtesy of heavyweights like Greg Kurstin and Tobias Jesso Jr. But dig a little deeper, and you’ll find the seams showing—a tension between the artist Mayberry has been and the one she’s trying to become.
The album’s lead single, Change Shapes, is perhaps the most emblematic of this shift. It’s buoyant and playful, a sharp commentary on the exhausting act of accommodating others. Over crisp beats and layered synths, Mayberry alternates between weariness and defiance. “We’re all snakes,” she sings, acknowledging the compromises she’s made to survive in a male-dominated industry. The song is at once self-aware and cathartic, its infectious chorus begging for a singalong even as its lyrics sting.
Other tracks find Mayberry treading more personal terrain. On Are You Awake?, she ponders her transplanted life in Los Angeles, torn between her Glaswegian roots and the allure of the West Coast. The song’s gentle melancholy is disarming, its sparse arrangement a welcome counterpoint to the maximalist tendencies of tracks like Crocodile Tears. There’s a subtle brilliance in how Mayberry captures the push-pull of belonging and alienation, nostalgia and ambition. The result feels raw and real, even when the production gleams.
Yet, not everything lands. The Y2K influence, while charming in places, sometimes feels overplayed. Tracks like A Work of Fiction and Anywhere But Dancing flirt with Avril Lavigne-esque melodrama but lack the edge that made early 2000s pop so captivating. They’re pleasant, yes, but occasionally teeter on generic, their sonic nostalgia not quite enough to elevate them.
And then there’s Sorry, Etc.—a frenetic, drum-and-bass-fueled track that’s as polarizing as it is bold. It’s the album’s most experimental moment, a chaotic swirl of beats and biting commentary on gender dynamics in music. It’s not an easy listen, but it’s proof that Mayberry is willing to take risks even when the results might alienate listeners. The track feels like a sonic manifesto, a reminder that Mayberry is still figuring things out—and that’s okay.
Lyrically, Vicious Creature oscillates between deft introspection and heavy-handed declarations. Mayberry’s words are often poignant, particularly when exploring fractured relationships, both familial (Oh, Mother) and romantic (Punch Drunk). But there are moments where the writing veers into overwrought territory, weighed down by metaphor or moralizing. On Sunday Best, for instance, lines like “God bless destruction of an ego” feel more like a mission statement than poetry, and the song’s otherwise engaging melody suffers for it.
Still, it’s hard not to admire the honesty that permeates the album. Mayberry doesn’t shy away from contradictions—her lyrics implicate herself as much as they critique others. Whether recounting toxic dynamics or wrestling with her own complicity in industry sexism, there’s a vulnerability here that feels earned. Tracks like Mantra exemplify this, blending jagged arrangements with moments of eerie quiet as if Mayberry is trying to hold conflicting truths in the same breath. It’s messy, yes, but that messiness feels human.
In many ways, Vicious Creature mirrors its title. Nostalgia, Mayberry reminds us, is a “vicious creature,” and the album is at its best when it grapples with that idea directly. It’s not just a nod to past influences, but a meditation on what it means to grow, to change, to reconcile who you were with who you want to be. For all its imperfections, there’s something deeply compelling about watching Mayberry navigate that process in real-time.
Mayberry is still finding her voice as a solo artist, and while Vicious Creature doesn’t always stick the landing, it’s a bold first step. The album’s contradictions—its polished sheen and raw edges, its moments of clarity and clumsiness—are precisely what make it worth hearing. Mayberry might not have all the answers yet, but she’s asking the right questions. And that, more than anything, feels like progress.
Photo – Charlotte-Patmore
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