Two weeks ago, Billboard published an article calling 21-year-old musician Ashley Nicolette Frangipane, commonly known as Halsey, the “voice of her generation.” This confused me immensely, because as a millennial, I cannot stand her. She is Tumblr in human form—she literally referred to herself as “very Tumblr” in the above-mentioned Billboard cover story, which is quite possibly the most nauseating thing I have ever heard.

Earlier in the article, she acknowledges the conspiracy theorists who “think [she] was crafted in a boardroom,” which, to be quite frank, would make all too much sense. She looks, acts, and makes music focus-groups to appeal to 16-year-olds who spend too much time browsing social justice-related tags on Tumblr (if you don’t fit this demographic and still like her, go listen to Radiohead, or Drake or something. Also go outside and live a little). The most tangible example of her image and music is her absolutely abysmal song “New Americana” off her recent album "Badlands," which somehow managed to become the 25th-most played song on mainstream radio early last month (I know, it’s terrifying). I know all of you came here for one of two reasons—you either hate this song or love this song but also love torturing yourself with content you completely disagree with—and I can assure that you will all be highly satisfied with the following analysis of “New Americana,” music’s most recent abomination.

Let’s start from the first verse. “Cigarettes and tiny liquor bottles—just what you’d expect inside her her new Balenciaga / Vile romance turned dreams into an empire / self-made success, now she rolls with Rockefellers.” Four lines in, and I already have absolutely no clue what’s going on. What did she do to become so successful? What is this “vile romance?” Why do you hate descriptiveness, Halsey? And really—the Rockefellers? Does anyone still care about them? Here’s what we know so far: there’s a girl who became successful because did something. She apparently has established some sort of empire. She's on the road to lung cancer, drinks alcohol (E D G Y) and spends money on ugly handbags. She also hangs out with the Rockefellers—this would be relevant if it were, I don’t know, 1879?

“Survival of the richest, the city’s ours until the fall. They’re Monaco and Hamptons bound, but we don’t feel like outsiders at all.” We’ve completely abandoned the initial story line in favor of… vague empowerment? Taking over a city? Who is rich? You were just praising someone for “making it,” and now you’re pissed ‘cause Darwinism exists and you’re on the bottom end of it? Who are “Monaco and Hamptons bound?” Who are the outsiders who “don’t feel like outsiders at all?” The blue-haired Internet kids who identify as a 1.2 on the Kinsey scale but are completely straight? It is possible I’m way off-base; it's not my own fault, though. Halsey has provided absolutely no context as to what the hell is going on. It’s as if every lyric was ripped directly from a journal entry that was written by a 15-year-old minutes after they got high for the first time and watched a John Hughes movie. R E B E L L I O N I S I N T H E A I R.

Yes! We’ve arrived at the chorus! We're finally gonna some closure from Halsey as to what she’s been talking about for the last 33 seconds (my god it feels like so much longer). Here we go! “We are the new Americana, high on legal marijuana / raised on Biggie and Nirvana, we are the new Americana.” Kill me. Honestly just kill me now. Where do I begin? “High on legal marijuana?” Halsey, you live in effing New Jersey. You’re still sneaking around the back of your parents’ house to smoke stale weed you’ve had for two months sitting in an empty container for anti-depressants. Wait, sorry, I forgot you’re 21—I keep thinking you’re 15—so drop the parents’ house stuff. Replace it with the dreary apartment you live in when you’re not on the road pandering to teenagers who think burning incense makes them multi-dimensional. “Raised on Biggie and Nirvana?” Nope. You’re 21. Kurt Cobain died while you were still swimming in your mom's uterus, and Biggie was less than three years away from getting assassinated. Perhaps your parents played them incessantly while you were growing up, which is possible, yet upsetting, seeing as you wasted their time by taking absolutely no cues from either artist and continuously produce music without any semblance of edge, grit or fun. This is the line where everything becomes clear: “New Americana” is completely disingenuous, and is nothing but a focus-group attempt at appealing to kids who haven’t established an identity and drool at the sound of anything that makes them feel rebellious. Halsey herself is inadvertently this as well—she’s bisexual, biracial and bipolar! What could be better? Perhaps she’ll adopt a disabled dog and write a thinkpiece about canine ableism? Maybe she’ll dye her hair, wait for it—green? We’re all waiting with baited breath. I could keep analyzing “New Americana,” but it would be redundant, as I’m sure you can all predict what happens next. There’s a studly captain of a football team who’s secretly gay (this doesn’t happen), a vague reference to summer and a truly awful final attempt at E D G I N E S S—“what kind of bubblegum have you been blowing lately?” Mint, Halsey. I chew mint gum. Thanks for asking.