Slag Wars: The Next Destroyer (Episode 1 review)

The Cock Destroyers’ most high-profile gig yet insists that slags should destroy cocks, not each other. 

No one should feign surprise that a reality competition titled Slag Wars: The Next Destroyer, fronted by The Cock Destroyers and produced by esteemed gay porn studio MEN.com, is cheap and cheerful trash. For the same reasons, no one should be surprised that its premiere episode was gloriously entertaining. 

A kind of RuPaul’s Slag Race, the show plonks seven queer, trans and non-binary sex workers – dubbed ‘Slags’ in the spirit of reclamation – in a countryside mansion, where they must compete in various challenges, or ‘Passion Projects’, to become the Next Destroyer. It’s not clear at this point what this title really means, or the prizes it entails, but there is a shiny pair of Golden Lips for everyone who does well enough to secure their place in the next episode. Each instalment will drop weekly, and will be available to stream for free at slagwars.com

The Slags are a delightful bunch for the most part, and the premiere dangles some morsels of conflict, such as when Californian trans showgirl Nicky baldly asks small-town Scottish boy Kevin why he’s qualified to be on a show about sex workers despite not being a sex worker himself: ‘Are you just a superfan of the girls? Couldn’t afford a meet-and-greet with them?’

But in all honesty, Slag Wars only truly comes alive when its hosts are onscreen. 

For the uninitiated, The Cock Destroyers are British adult entertainers and social media sensations Rebecca More and Sophie Anderson. The pair had been separately cultivating their own careers for years, but in 2018, a hastily-filmed Twitter callout for ‘about six fucking cocks’ to join her and Sophie for a collaborative morning gangbang (that evening’s gangbang sold out) made them instant gay icons. Watch it

In less than a minute, the viral clip summarises the duo’s winning dynamic, with Rebecca’s posh sex kitten purr bouncing effortlessly off Sophie’s brash enthusiasm. The pair initially became friends when Rebecca invited Sophie to a gangbang and was pleasantly shocked to meet someone who could rival her dirty talk skills – and it has been nothing short of remarkable to watch them parlay their bawdy banter and cosmic chemistry into club night PAs, Netflix promo spots, a sex-less acting gig in MEN.com’s gay porn flick A Tale of Two Cock Destroyers, and now their own reality show. 

Slag Wars’ smartest move is digging a little deeper into their relationship. From what I gather after obsessively studying their interviews and interactions, Rebecca is the cutthroat mother-businesswoman figure (she co-owns kinky fashion line Daddy Couture with porn star Matthew Camp, who appears here as a kind of one-man Pit Crew), while Sophie is her more sensitive and slightly naive counterpart. The show has fun playing with this tension at a critical juncture: eliminations!

After assessing the viral videos our Slags were tasked with producing for their first Passion Project, Sophie suddenly forgets every production meeting leading up to this moment and begins to struggle with the prospect of sending someone home. Rebecca tries to remain calm and pragmatic (‘We’re not sending them to the guillotine’) but things get personal fast. 

Before scampering off the bed on which this particular slag war is being waged, Sophie insists that, as someone who is so close to her, Rebecca should have known Sophie ‘couldn’t properly do this’. The drama is fabulously contrived, and by tapping into a harmless difference in personalities and exploiting it with camp aplomb, the scene brings unexpected depth to the Cock Destroyers brand.   

Nothing can prepare you for the elimination scene itself, however. A satisfying joint-win aside, there was no resolution on this occasion – only a conflicted and overwhelmed Sophie dragging herself across a pebbled driveway, hopefully avoiding the shattered remains of the Golden Lips she threw to the ground just moments before.

Perhaps Sophie will get her way and Slag Wars will eschew eliminations in favour of a more constructive tone. There would be merit to such a format. If there’s one thing Rebecca and Sophie’s friendship proves, it’s that slags should destroy cocks – not each other.

‘Róisín Machine’ is an audacious late-nite fantasy

Score: 10/10

Stream on Spotify or Apple Music

Add to playlist: ‘Murphy’s Law’, ‘Narcissus’, ‘Incapable’

The doyenne of outsider art-pop steps into her wildest dreams.

This is a simulation / This is for demonstration,’ coos Róisín Murphy as her fifth solo album stretches its limbs and hypes itself up for a night on the town. True enough, Róisín Machine is an audacious, open-’til-late fantasy, at turns rough and sensual. 

Echoing 2007’s seminal Overpowered, these new 10 songs cast the Moloko frontwoman as a witty yet otherworldly dance floor diva with a notable appetite for R&B. 

A handful of them rival any of Róisín’s biggest belters, from the celtic acid-disco of ‘Narcissus’, to the steamy ‘Murphy’s Law’, which succinctly captures the anxiety of bumping into an ex on a night out. But her and creative partner Richard Barratt’s true achievement is sustaining a luxurious mood throughout the record. 

‘Simulation’ makes magic out of a simple keyboard riff and percussion that’s padded but firm, and sets the tone for a mix of classic house and disco grooves with progressive chillwave and glo-fi elements. If that sounds overwhelming in scope, generous track lengths enable each one to reach its full potential. Nonetheless, the Deluxe houses six extended remixes, each essential.

‘Kingdom of Ends’ teases its climax for an agonising six minutes. It never comes, and although Róisín tries to warn us (‘I’ve waited so long / There’s bound to be a letdown’), there’s much replay value in the anticipation, not to mention her shape-shifting vocal.

Róisín Machine’s commitment to the slow burn pays off when the tempo does pick up. ‘We Got Together’ is an urgent call to the dance floor akin to C+C Music Factory’s infamous ‘Gonna Make You Sweat (Everybody Dance Now)’. While it may not be as melodious as what comes before, its colossal sawtooth synths hit like a truck.

I feel my story is still untold / But I’ll make my own happy ending’ is a lyric that appears no less than three times across the album, functioning as a kind of mission statement. Whether or not the neurotic closer ‘Jealousy’ constitutes a happy ending is a matter of opinion, yet Róisín Machine absolutely succeeds in telling the story of an artist with little time for convention.

Róisín’s return to full-throttle dance music may feel like a homecoming, but she’ll always be an outsider.

Six saucy ‘WAP’-isms that take female pleasure seriously

Despite being frequently hilarious, the first single from Cardi B’s upcoming second album treats female pleasure with the seriousness it deserves. 

‘WAP’ belongs to a neglected subgenre: female-led hip-hop anthems that are unapologetically filthy. Outrageous early-00s hits like Lil Kim’s ‘How Many Licks?’ and Khia’s ‘My Neck, My Back’ walked so ‘WAP’ could run.

Assisted by Megan Thee Stallion, the song is dripping with one-liners so eyebrow-raising, they’re putting plastic surgeons out of business. 

Shock value played a critical part in the track’s rapid infamy. Yet nearly two months on from its break-the-internet release, ‘WAP’ has been knocked from its perch at the top of US Spotify just once – by Justin Bieber’s comparatively puritanical ‘Holy’, a chart battle that likely reflects America’s ongoing culture war. ‘WAP’ returned to #1 within a day.

So what makes ‘WAP’ so sticky? 

A shrewd interpolation can do a lot of heavy-lifting. Frank Ski’s off-kilter 1993 dance track ‘Whores in This House’ is shockingly fertile soil for a hip-hop track to grow from, and producers Ayo the Producer and Keys get their money’s worth, looping the sample ad nauseum to hypnotic effect. 

But the replay value of something as sonically sparse as ‘WAP’ lives or dies by its lyrical content. As performers, Cardi’s cartoonish delivery meshes perfectly with Megan’s more intricate flows. Between them, they offer a bounty of ribald rhymes that, while hilarious, also treat a woman’s pleasure with the seriousness it deserves. Here are my personal favourites…

1. “Put this pussy right in your face / Swipe your nose like a credit card”

I like to think of this lyric as Cardi’s idea of justice for the model who had Nelly swipe her butt cheeks with his credit card back in the 2003 video for ‘Drill Tip’. 

2. “If he fuck me and ask ‘Whose is it?’ / When I ride the dick, Ima spell my name”

The implications here are twofold. While her sexual partner might be expecting Megan to say his name, she inverts the kinky premise, and asserts ownership of her own genitalia, her sexual partner’s genitalia, or possibly both.

3. “Your honour, I’m a freak bitch

Why is Megan addressing a judge? Is she on trial for being too sexy? That’s Trump’s America for you.

4. “I ride on that thing like the cops is behind me

Any pop song making reference to the police in 2020 should be doing so with a distinct purpose. Sure, this is a funny and quintessentially Cardi quip, but the fleeting image of a POC trying to escape the foot soldiers of a racist establishment still resonates. Kudos.

5. “You ain’t really gotta fuck him for a thing / He already made his mind up before he came

This is a surprisingly sweet one. After instructing anyone who owns a Wet Ass Pussy to ‘ask for a car while you ride that dick’, Megan seems to correct herself, and reassures you, the listener, that your partner is so utterly smitten that they would give you the world without the need for sexual favours. 

6. “I want you to touch that lil’ dangly thing that swing at the back of my throat

Apparently this is called the ‘uvula’. Although who’s going to remember that when you’re about to get some grade-A D? 

‘Smile’ by Katy Perry is a delightful pick’n’mix of sounds

Score: 8.5/10

Stream on Spotify or Apple Music

Add to playlist: ‘Never Really Over’, ‘Cry About It Later’, ‘Tucked’ 

Humbled by the hostile reception to 2017’s mildly experimental Witness, Katy Perry plays to her strengths on fifth album Smile

These twelve new songs chronicle the singer’s journey to finding her smile again, and address the clinical depression that followed her commercial wobbles with surprising candour, as illustrated by the ‘sad clown’ character Katy has adopted for the era. 

While this is ripe material for more empowerment anthems à la ‘Firework’ and ‘Roar’, Smile doesn’t abandon the coquettish streak that launched her to superstardom with ‘I Kissed A Girl’. The result is a delightful pick’n’mix of sounds, guided by themes of resilience and gratitude. 

Had a piece of humble pie / That ego check saved my life’, Katy half-raps on the title track, a strident, horn-driven salute to shifting priorities, built on an interpolation of ‘Jamboree’ by Naughty By Nature. Bizarrely, early vinyl pressings include a superior edit featuring Diddy.

Many factors played into Katy’s 2017 backlash. Some were petty (would it have even happened if she hadn’t dismantled her pin-up image?) but it didn’t help that Witness was severely lacking in the carefree uptempos that were once Katy’s speciality. 

Almost by way of apology, the record opens with a one-two-three punch of pop perfection: last May’s ‘Never Really Over’, the melancholic 80s synthpop of ‘Cry About It Later’, and the European house of ‘Teary Eyes’. 

Dance bops will woo the gays, but Katy needs the soccer moms back on side too, so Smile is obliged to lean into Adult Contemporary with mixed results.

‘Daisies’ is a dreamy folk-pop number about following your dreams. The sparse arrangement of ‘Resilient’ clashes with an intense vocal. On the beautiful, gospel-inspired ‘Only Love’, Katy shares how she would spend her last day on Earth: ‘I’d call my mother and tell her I’m sorry / I never call her back / I’d pour my heart and soul out into a letter / and send it to my dad.

Smile might be a little too content to rehash the winning pop formula of Teenage Dream – which celebrates its 10th anniversary this week – but the fact that Katy Perry can pull it off without that record’s sonic architects Dr. Luke and Max Martin is certainly worth smiling about.

Kylie Minogue’s ‘Say Something’ is a plush, romantic banger

Stream on: Spotify | Apple Music

‘Say Something’ is a promising first taste of Kylie Minogue’s upcoming 15th studio album Disco, due early November. 

Despite the album artwork serving retro 70s glamour, the single is more in line with the neo-disco sadbangers of Robyn and Carly Rae Jepsen. Minus the sadness. 

In fact, ‘Say Something’ is as warm, plush and romantic as any Kylie fan could hope for. 

Decked out with bubbly synths, cracking drums and an addictive guitar loop, the song’s first half chugs along nicely before two notable disruptions: (1) a chorus that lasts about a nanosecond, and (2) a third act devoted to a repeated refrain: ‘Love is love / It never ends / Can we all be as one again?

These bold choices give ‘Say Something’ room to develop a more layered and expansive groove than its 3:32 runtime would suggest. Anchored by a spirited vocal performance, it’s yet another dose of dance floor decadence from pop’s perennial princess. 

Roughion go to the moon and back on their new double single

Stream on: Spotify | Apple Music | Bandcamp

Out 31st July, the new double A-side single from emerging Welsh electronic duo Roughion launches their sound into the stratosphere. 

‘Target the Moon’ and ‘Acid Test’ are squelchy acid house experiments and 100% club-ready – even if, at the time of writing, the world at large isn’t. Yet the production is so rich and animated that it also thrives in a domestic dance floor situation. 

‘Target the Moon’ begins with an overture of strings, burbling synths, and a transmission from Cape Canaveral, during which an earnest voice outlines the imminent launch of a space probe. It’s a captivating two-minute build-up, and even when the beat drops and goes into hyperdrive, the track never loses its sophisticated sheen. 

‘Acid Test’ is a playful bit of techno house, discharging dubstep-adjacent wubs in rapid succession. It’s an ideal tonic to the cerebral ‘Target the Moon’, culminating in a silly, spliced-together message from Donald Trump – although it wouldn’t be the most outrageous thing POTUS has said in 2020.

‘Confessions Without Words.’ by Jacqua Cooper sounds like a clandestine rave

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Score: 6.5/10

Add to playlist: ‘Cooler Back Then’, ‘Henny Harmon’, ‘On the Shore’, ‘Out Ahda’

Newcomer Jacqua Cooper has an ear for lo-fi techno beats with a stimulating hip-hop twist.

On his second LP, Confessions Without Words., the New York-born DJ/musician reveals his secrets across 21 doses of hard-hitting and (almost entirely) vocal-free dance music.

From trance and vaporwave, to industrial and future bass, the record leaves no electro subgenre behind – and at its finest moments, captures the raw, spontaneous energy of a clandestine rave. 

Be warned: Cooper’s production style is rough and ready. The copious stock sound effects don’t always add to the experience, and even at their most pummelling, his instrumentals have a tendency to meander.

But when he hones in on a particular concept – such as the slinky trap of ‘Out Ahda’, or the corrupted tropical house of ‘Cycle’ – the results are hypnotic in a Kaytranada-meets-Ryan Hemsworth kind of way.

Despite the record’s sonic disarray, Cooper isn’t above nailing more commercial sounds: ‘Cooler Back Then’ dials up the sugary 90s trance nostalgia, while ‘On the Shore’ is picturesque balearic house. If you listen to anything from Confessions Without Words., make sure it’s the final four tracks, which make a particularly good case for Cooper’s melodic prowess. 

Hey, after 21 tracks, ending on a high is no mean feat.

Lady Gaga’s ‘Chromatica’ is a soothing antidote for a chaotic reality

Stream on Spotify

Score: 8.5/10

Add to playlist: ‘911’, ‘Rain On Me’, ‘Sour Candy’, ‘Babylon’

Chromatica, Lady Gaga’s seventh LP, is touted as a return to the fantastical synthpop she made her stage name with. 

Club-focused and ballad-free, the record will only bolster Ms Steffani Germonotta’s status as a veteran hitmaker. After all, who among her generation of popstars is still securing Top 5 singles (‘Stupid Love’) and #1s (the french-house spectacular ‘Rain On Me’ featuring Ariana Grande)? 

Yet on a musical level, Gaga and main collaborator Bloodpop rarely lean into the chaotic impulses that made her early work so disruptive. The album’s title and artwork promise a glimpse into the Academy Award winner’s steampunk-tinted view of the world – a place that’s neither dystopian or utopian, where ‘no one thing is greater than the other’. 

It’s an antidote to the politically extremist reality we find ourselves living in, but what’s jarring is how this spirit of egalitarianism has bled into the production choices. In place of the sonic curveballs fans have come to expect (think: Born This Way’s industrial sleaze, Joanne’s lived-in country feel), Chromatica wears its neutrality as a badge of honour. 

There is something resembling a narrative, divided into three acts, that may or may not be a play on Alice In Wonderland (then again, why else would the first lyric on your record be ‘My name isn’t Alice / But I’ll keep looking for Wonderland’?) Each act is preceded by a string arrangement – a portentous and oh-so-Gaga way to set the scene for 13 lightweight dance bops.

Gaga co-produced these segues, but elsewhere, she sticks solely to songwriting. Without her distinctively bonkers flourishes, too many of the tracks here feel flat, and undermine their otherwise towering toplines. ‘Free Woman’ and ‘Fun Tonight’ come with booming choruses that are disappointingly rendered as build-ups for a dated drop.

To its credit, Chromatica pulls off what many albums cannot – a superior second half. ‘911’ is a candid ode to Gaga’s antipsychotic medication (‘My biggest enemy is me / pop a 911’) backed by a filthy techno beat that leaves its theme of pill-poppin’ open to interpretation.

‘Sour Candy’ is instantly addictive, elevated by an appearance from K-pop girl group Blackpink and a Maya Jane Coles sample. ‘Babylon’ is essentially ‘Vogue’ with added saxophones and Gaga gives zero fucks about it: ‘Money don’t talk / Rip that song

Elton John collaboration ‘Sine From Above’ explores the theory that our universe originated from a feminine soundwave (hence the ‘sine’) through intelligent imagery: ‘Then the signal split in two / the sound created stars like me and you / Before there was love / There was silence’. At just over four minutes in length, it somehow feels like an epic in the context of Chromatica – which only highlights how clipped and truncated some of these songs are by comparison. 

Happy birthday ‘Flesh Tone’! Kelis’s masterwork turns 10

Stream on Spotify

Score: 9.0/10

10 years on from its release, Kelis’s EDM experiment is still an uplifting celebration of club culture and motherhood.  

I wouldn’t normally consider will.i.am a staunch defender of arty and sophisticated dance-pop. This is a man who once thought it appropriate to rap ‘this beat is the shit / faeces!’ on a harrowing collaboration with J-Lo and Mick Jagger. Will is flawed, but I can’t begrudge anyone who helped bring one of my all-time favourite records to fruition.

In 2010, things were looking a bit rocky for Kelis. Her fourth album, 2006’s sprawling Kelis Was Here, failed to produce a single as inescapable as 2003’s career-defining ‘Milkshake’. Jive Records issued a bargain bin hits collection and parted ways with an R&B maverick caught between two extremes: too alt for the pop crowd and too pop for the alt crowd. 

Kelis peaced out of the music industry, qualified as a saucier at Le Cordon Bleu, and fell pregnant towards the end of a fraught marriage with rapper Nas. She was pregnant with son Knight when she started recording what would become Flesh Tone in her garage. The indie dance project was originally developed with Cee-Lo Green, until a wise man named will.i.am persuaded Kelis to get back in the major label game with a deal on his own imprint via Interscope Records. 

“The cool people know Kelis”

That’s right. He who once wrote a song about The Pussycat Dolls giving him sass for masturbating in public had the foresight to understand that Kelis’s disco reinvention would deserve the world’s attention. He even offered fan-girly soundbites like “the cool people know Kelis” (correct) and “The Black Eyed Peas are big; I think Kelis can be that big” (hmm).

Will’s PR bluster might have proved too optimistic, but his support helped secure an elite transatlantic team of DJs and producers, including David Guetta, Benny Banassi, Boys Noize, Free School and DJ Ammo

Kelis’s brief was simple: make ‘em sweat. The idea conveniently aligned with the late 00s/early 10s EDM boom, when the likes of Guetta and Lady Gaga were beginning to normalise watered-down eurodance beats on US airwaves. Yet the execution was characteristically original – culminating in an uplifting celebration of club culture and motherhood.  

Club expertise

Kelis and her nocturnal collective came equipped with decades of club expertise between them, and Flesh Tone doesn’t waste a drop. 

It’s actually designed to play like a perfect 38-minute DJ set, offering nine straight-up bangers in a row, stitched together by intriguing segues. Only ‘Emancipate’’s bludgeoning chorus threatens to disrupt the flow, but even that kicks off with a brilliant opening line: ‘Let me tell you what love is / It’s when you meet each other halfway / I’m en route.’ 

From the sour computerised groans that power ‘Intro’, to the warm, flugelhorn-assisted disco finale of ‘Song for the Baby’, the album transports you to the foggiest, most hedonistic underground Berlin night club you can imagine. 

The omnipresent four-on-the-floor beat rattles through your eardrums and your heart. Swathes of shapeshifting synths evoke a charged, almost claustrophobic night club atmosphere. On ‘Scream’, Kelis even tells us to ‘push back’. Ostensibly she’s referring to pushing back on the people who bring us down in day-to-day life, but the line could just as easily be her expert survival tip for not drowning in a sea of sweaty ravers. 

After a decade of sporadic dance collabs, Kelis relished the chance to become a fully-fledged dance floor dominatrix. Her voice is made for the genre – from husky belts and angelic harmonies, to icy spoken sections (‘22nd Century’ is prefaced by a reminder that ‘We… control… the dance… floor’). 

A secret weapon

It’s rather beautiful to imagine Kelis adopting her new persona in the recording booth, pregnant with her first child, because that’s who she is singing to for the most part. Her songs encounter a medley of personal hurdles, most notably her toxic relationship with Nas, but almost every tale is punctuated with a triumph over adversity. 

The solemn ‘Brave’ reflects on both the music industry and Kelis’s marriage (‘I had to give it up’), but it’s also blessed with a big, dumb Benny Benassi synth riff á la ‘Satisfaction’ that makes it impossible to take too seriously. Flesh Tone is optimistic out of pure necessity – that’s how Kelis wanted her baby to feel when they eventually listen to it. 

The euphoria arguably peaks with ‘Acapella’, a thumping Guetta-produced smash that is still rivalled only by Madonna’s ‘Ray of Light’ as the most transcendent ode to maternal love to ever hit the dance floor. 

But it’s just one of the many anthems that Knight can boast about inspiring as a zygote when he’s a little older. ‘Home’ sprays out trance synths that cut through like laser beams, and although ‘4th of July (Fireworks)’ has a storied history (an interpolation of a remix of a Canadian indie-rock number called ‘You’re My Heart’) you’d never be able to tell by its smooth beachside piano-house. 

Few pop albums can match Flesh Tone’s synthesis of nosebleed electronica and raw vulnerability. It’s ironic that this 10th anniversary should arrive at a time when no one knows when we’ll next be in a position to socialise on a dance floor. But until mankind can safely share that connection again, this palpably human record will have to suffice.

‘SAWAYAMA’ will go down as one of the best debuts of 2020

Stream on Spotify

Add to library: ‘Comme Des Garçons’, ‘XS’, ‘Paradisin’’

Score: 9/10

Rina Sawayama’s debut LP is a rich and articulate statement about family, friendship and identity. 

2017’s RINA mini-album gave the Japanese-English singer a reputation for fizzy, high-gloss noughties-pop that articulated complex themes of Asian representation in the media and loneliness in the internet age. 

Fittingly, these songs found a niche audience among woke digital natives – her fans call themselves ‘Pixels’ – who admire Rina’s political candour as much as her glittering bops. Released by Dirty Hit Records, the ultra-hip home of Wolf Alice and The 1975, SAWAYAMA arrives on the biggest platform her career has seen so far. 

Despite the welcome boost in profile, the record demonstrates zero interest in carving out a chart presence for itself. Instead Rina uses it as an opportunity to inflate the introspective bubble she and her fans already share. 

Rock opera opener ‘Dynasty’ sets the therapy-session tone, reflecting on her family’s intergenerational pain and searching for ways to reclaim her own life story: ‘Won’t you break the chain with me?SAWAYAMA excels at communicating the burdens of family, anxiety and racism through precise melodies and extravagant production.

Helmed primarily by Clarence Clarity, the music revels in the blunt contrast between heavy metal machismo and synthetic pop, often within the same song. That’s not to say it lacks levity – ‘Comme Des Garçons’ serves sleek ballroom-house; new jack swing jaunt ‘Love Me 4 Me’ paraphrases RuPaul‘s favourite adage; while ‘XS’ gleefully takes the piss out of materialism over Middle Eastern-flavoured R&B.

Yet the most exciting tracks explore the culture clash between Rina’s strict East Asian upbringing and the alluring excess of the West, and in doing so, break fresh lyrical ground.

Mimicking the sensory overload of being hungover at a Japanese video game arcade, ‘Paradisin’’ tells the story of a teenage Rina blanking her mother’s phone calls to go binge drinking with her mates in Trafalgar Square, driving the poor woman ‘cra-a-a-a-azy’. 8-bit chiptune synths and rapid drums capture the pair’s game of cat-and-mouse perfectly. 

Things get a little too earnest on ‘Chosen Family’, a ballad about outcasts and the plutonic support systems they form in adulthood that, while objectively lovely, comes off as treacly and Disneyfied next to 12 genre-bending tracks. But this is a minor blip – and certainly not enough to derail what will go down as one of the most impressive debuts of 2020.