Bad Heather (née Porter Chapman) and I probably (read: definitely) ran in very different social circles back in high school. On any given Friday night, he probably went to those parties the popular clique hosts whenever someone’s parents are out of town after the football game, drinking whatever was in the liquor cabinet for a red Solo cup-infested Snapchat story while I was also getting drunk, but on tears from trying to figure out a calculus problem at 11:34 PM. The stage name, taken from the eponymous Winona Ryder-driven movie, is fitting (as is the make-up, which seems pulled from Heather Duke’s palette in the TV reboot), but Her Sorry itself actually falls more along the lines of My So-Called Life.
Think the lethargic nonchalance of Jordan Catallano, brooding in the “back lot,” as lead singer of the Frozen Embryos until, all of a sudden, Raynne steals the mic, injecting the band with her infectious energy and eye-rolling sass. The roasts are hers, too, from the “Mia Wallace wannabe” cigarette drag to the bathroom-gossip confrontation of “Think watching Tarantino is a sub for personality?”. There’s a bit of cehryl’s “heat wave” in there as well, though at the end of the day, it’s Chapman, inhabiting all these roles at once (laid-back observer, self-conscious romantic, give-no-fucks asshole), who sells the song, as if to say (even to the outsiders, like me): “Snap out of your daze; it’s time to dance.”