Given where she's been lately, it should come as no surprise that Megan Thee Stallion has chosen to dispense with pleasantries on her new album. 

The ferocity of Traumazine begins with its cover, which shows her visage in an emotive triplicate reminiscent 

of Cerberus, the three-headed hellhound of Greek mythology. In Dante's Inferno, Cerberus resides in the Third 

Circle of Hell with the gluttons, where he "rends the spirits, flays, and quarters them." As an executioner, Megan is more precise. 

On the Rico Nasty collaboration "Scary," she renders both her lyrical and physical form as a foreboding 

omen for her detractors: "Say my name like Candyman, and bitch, you know I'm there / These hoes wish they saw me when they lookin' in the mirror."

Megan is also used to being the life of every party. Her bawdy

unabashed 5'10" presence quickly won her devoted followers, and as her star rose she 

engaged in rowdy revelry with these loyal supporters at famed roving spaces called "Hottie Parties." She was so eager to please that base — the

fans who helped elevate the carnal slow-burn "Big Ole Freak," from her 2018 EP Tina Snow, into her first bona fide hit — that she continued 

to perform as the good-time gal they had come to love even as she entered what would be the most traumatizing years of her life. 

Where her debut studio album, 2020's Good News, clanged against the public awareness of that turmoil, Traumazine 

leans into it: making space for ruminations and grief, managing the swirling emotions produced by years of acrimony and cathartically

letting them rise to the surface. In reaching for a more confessional mode, she reaffirms her commitment to talking her talk.