Frankly, I’m flummoxed as to where to begin with I'm A Fucking Celebrity, the new release from Worst Artist in NYC, the stage name of Brooklyn Golden Boy and persona gratissima Teddy Rosen, so I might as well start with the sultry cover shot of the artist sitting naked in a bathtub. Photographer Nell Dreyfus’s exquisite staging, which accentuates the artist’s chest hair, nipples, and legs—in other words, the pure raw sensuality of the male form—is punctuated by a speech bubble bearing the album’s title. The record release party saw Rosen presiding over the ceremonies without baring his bosom, bottoms, or blessed parts for the audience but instead revealing, little by little, inch by inch, the soul and the songs of Worst Artist in NYC.

In an attempt to describe this album, we could throw around the usual list of signifiers and references that accompany the release of any new music, phrases like “if Paul Simon messed with Ableton while on an acid trip” or “Electric Light Orchestra meets the enlightened version of Bam Margera that we all hope to one day witness.” We could attempt to generate equivalences across mediums. Here’s a statement: “If ‘Youth Culture = Fascism,’ as the Worst Artist in NYC song title suggests, then Rosen is like the born-and-bred lovechild of Barbara Krueger, Jenny Holzer, and Cindy Sherman.”

Worst Artist in NYC has transcended his medium and produced a Gesamtkunstwerk par excellence. The final track, “Make A List! (feat. Nice Elevator),” starts with a recognizable dance sample before Rosen starts to pour his heart out, singing about worthwhile suffering and self-flagellation in front of audiences. By the end of the record, so much ground has been traversed—fame, “Downtown,” the culture—all things that are so exhausting. Stars burn out. But the Worst Artist in NYC is no star. He’s a fucking celebrity.