Reneé Rapp, 'BITE ME' Album Review

Reneé Rapp Is Full of Movement But Going Nowhere on BITE ME

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In some corners of the pop culture ecosystem, the 2020s have been the de facto Decade of Reneé Rapp. She’s quite literally participated in every form of media—or at least every form that could get you an EGOT—more often than not as Regina George or some “if-Regina-George-was-closeted” adjacent. She dropped an EP, then a debut album. She promoted said album at the same time she promoted the movie based on the musical she’d already done. She played Coachella. She did Saturday Night Live and came out as a lesbian mid-sketch, sandwiched between Bowen Yang and Jacob Elordi. She went public with her girlfriend, fellow musician Towa Bird. She got a wolf cut, never took off her sunglasses, and went even deeper into her brazen, assertive, fearless identity. Rapp was starting to take form as her truest self, and we all loved to see it! Even if we mourned the loss of her Sex Lives of College Girls character Leighton Murray.

For nearly five years, Rapp had been everywhere. Then she wasn’t. The end of 2024 into early 2025 was about Rapp living for herself. She dove into her relationship and her sexuality, frequenting East LA lesbian bars with friends like Cara Delevingne (a friendship that’s now matching costume-level close). The focus was on spending her time how she wanted instead of how others expected. BITE ME, Rapp’s sophomore LP, is the result of that search for identity, born out of the state of utter burnout she experienced during the first half of the decade. It finds her shedding her previous selves, her armors, and leaning into authenticity. For Rapp, BITE ME is all of the facets that make up her truest self. She’s here to remind us all of the multitudes we exist in.

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It’s just that that “self” doesn’t feel fully realized, and those “multitudes” don’t always form a clear throughline. The only thing holding them together seems to be Rapp’s DGAF attitude (her couldn’t-be-bothered drawl, her now-canonical lack of media training, her seemingly nonexistent shame). And that’s compelling in its own right. Rapp herself is compelling in her own right. Her vocal chops can’t be denied (I’d argue she’s Gen Z’s answer to Adele), she’s clearly multifaceted, and most of the time her personality leans charming rather than tiresome. But something about her keeps me from fully buying in. Her multi-dimensionality, in all its glory, blurs the pop stardom she’s been striving for this whole time.

This has only been exacerbated by the BITE ME press tour, where she’s seemed to talk about everything but her music. She was on the cover of Cosmo, did Amy Poehler’s podcast, sat for the Vanity Fair lie detector test, and was interviewed by Ziwe. And that was all undoubtedly entertaining, but where’s the Variety “Behind the Song”? Or a Zane Lowe sitdown? Or even a 45-second Pitchfork Perfect 10? Her choices (if not directly her’s, then her team’s) give the impression of personality first, music second. Especially when the content of those interviews offers little to no insight into songwriting or creative processes, and instead relies solely on her inherent chaos, which thrives off pure sarcasm, or stretching the truth, or being so brash that the interviewer can’t tell if she’s being legit or not.

This is all to say that I was already skeptical going into BITE ME. Rapp announced the record with “Leave Me Alone,” her sassy, bass-heavy declaration of independence in which shade is thrown and speculations abound (“Took my sex life with me now the show ain’t fuckin’” sent shockwaves through Twitter/X feeds and group chats everywhere). It simultaneously acts as “This is what I’ve been up to” answer to her months under the radar while reminding everyone she still DGAF. It’s catchy, if not corny, almost reluctantly so. The hook often bounces around my skull hours after listening. The chorus is straightforward about Rapp’s new ethos: “I wanna have fun.”

The song leans into kitsch, with Rapp’s vocal fry and the call-and-response verses teetering on the edge of Meghan Trainor-meets-Old Navy pop. The vision was further blurred by follow-up single “MAD,” which harkens back to the most anthemic of Snow Angel (though I can’t say I’m crazy about the chorus line “We could’ve been cute and we could’ve been stupid”), and “Why Is She Still Here,” a sauntering Winehouse-via-RAYE pseudo-ballad that gives Rapp the much-needed space to let her vocals fly. Rapp’s studio sessions were spent with pop writer/producer mainstays like Omer Fedi (Charli XCX, Lil Nas X) and Julian Bunetta (One Direction, Sabrina Carpenter). The singles weren’t formulaic but chasing a very specific type of pop: shiny, cheeky, and radio-ready.

BITE ME breeds a listening experience riddled with sonic whiplash. It’s one-third ballads, one-third disco-glitter-pop, and one-third exploratory detours into grunge, neosoul-adjacent, and ‘80s synthwave, with absurd amounts of spoken word laced into every corner. Regardless of which third the songs fall into, they all feel like cosplay, simply because Rapp bounces around so often that it’s hard for her to establish any sort of central sound. Rather than sounding like Reneé Rapp, she sounds like Reneé Rapp doing Olivia Rodrigo (“You’d Like That Wouldn’t U”), or Sabrina Carpenter (“Good Girl”), or Sheryl Crow (“SHY”), leaving you caught in an identity crisis of references.

Mid-album track “Kiss It Kiss It” is one of those pop songs that sound chemically engineered to make the Hot 100. Like if “Juno” were about lesbian sex. It’s fun and bouncy and a much-needed reprieve after the heartbreak of “Sometimes” (and it doesn’t startle nearly as much as the operatic vocal runs on “That’s So Funny” leading into the deeply unserious rock pop of “You’d Like That Wouldn’t U”). There are shimmery marimbas, a punching beat, and an undeniably catchy melody that sounds a little too much like Harry Styles’ “Carolina.” It’s a natural high point; the perfect balance of sensual and cutesy, a bolt of energy when you need it most. Rapp’s theatrical vocal delivery works here—her attitude and verve blend with her raspy falsetto, adding another layer of flirtation to the hook. It’s nothing revolutionary, but that doesn’t mean it’s not downright enjoyable.

“SHY” is simultaneously the best and worst track on the album, making it one of the most infuriating listens across all of BITE ME, enough to merit its own aside. The first two minutes of the song are among some of the best on the entire album. The Alanis Morissette-meets-Avril Lavigne early-aughts rock flair is a playground for Rapp’s vocals. They’re double-tracked and loose, the takes bouncing off each other in a way that makes my brain tingle. The chorus is addictive, one of those that feels so good to shout along to while driving too fast around your hometown (and yes, it’s been road-tested).

The phrasing on “Don’t handle me with care / When you’re pulling my hair / Baby, ruin my life” is equal parts instinctual and satisfying, the way she rushes through certain words to belt out others. “SHY” is also the most complete in narrative: the idea of Rapp being so into someone that they make her, as stoic and intimidating as she is, giddy and nervous. But before I can let the chorus fully take me away, I’m bombarded by the bridge: a spoken word, drumline-accompanied, cliché-flaunting verse that makes the song almost instantly skippable. It’s like how Charli XCX’s “Unlock It” is one of the greatest songs of all time, but only if you fast forward over the Jay Park verse. It’s a true jumpscare and buzzkill all in one, one of the many moments of BITE ME completely knocking the wind out of itself.

BITE ME thrives on the aesthetic of chaos, but it’s unclear whether it’s actually breaking form or just avoiding structure altogether. For all its variety and genre-hopping, there is little to no narrative throughline, and even less sonic cohesion. As singular a talent as Rapp is, BITE ME still feels tropey; the radical sophomore effort that hinges on a supposed identity shift, often via “the price of fame.” Conceptual frameworks aside, the sounds here are equally uninspired—or maybe just so inspired that it feels like she’s playing a part. But the real Rapp is in there, somewhere, hiding in the flashes where things click and she truly lets loose. By the end of BITE ME, I’m left wishing for more: intention, clarity, and trust in the instincts that made Rapp interesting in the first place.

Reneé Rapp Is Full of Movement But Going Nowhere on BITE ME

The pop singer’s second full-length LP is an uneven, sometimes frustrating listen, where fleeting sparks are buried beneath an unfocused sound and loose vision. Even the strongest moments feel off-center.