Born in Russia in 1998, Ruby grew up in Los Angeles — halfway between exile and excess. Hollywood raised her better than any parent could: under the pink haze of Sunset Boulevard, between the ruins of fame and the fake smiles of the Chateau Marmont, where she practi- cally lived as a teenager. Maybe that’s why she hates humanity — she’s seen too much of its performance.
Ruby calls herself a trash princess, though the title feels almost ironic. With her, “trash” is never forced — it’s instinctive, elegant even. She wears chaos like a dia- mond dress and turns decadence into discipline. Her music mirrors her: sharp, venomous, wired with irony.
A child of overexposure, Ruby doesn’t seek redemp- tion; she stages her downfall and makes it look divine. Every song feels like a confession wrapped in glitter and blood, every word a way to prove that she can turn ruin into something holy.
Effortlessly destructive, uncomfortably real — Ruby is what happens when the dream factory burns and someone keeps singing through the smoke.
THE ALBUM
American Tragedy is Ruby’s scorched love letter to the broken dream. Across ten venomous tracks, she dissects fame, beauty, addiction, and the cult of perfection with irony as sharp as a blade. The album plays like a dark pageant — a series of twisted prom nights, televised meltdowns, and suburban funerals dressed in glitter.
From the cynical disco-punk of “Welcome to the Drama Club” to the scorched anthem “American Tragedy”, Ruby stages the collapse of modern America as a glamorous disaster. Every song feeds on contra- diction: rage wrapped in gloss, despair turned into spectacle. She is the cheerleader of decay, the icon who knows she’s rotting, and still smiles for the lens.
The result is an album that’s both seductive and cruel — a concept pie- ce where pop burns itself alive. American Tragedy isn’t Ruby’s confes- sion; it’s her coronation.
Born in Russia in 1998, Ruby grew up in Los Angeles — halfway between exile and excess. Hollywood raised her better than any parent could: under the pink haze of Sunset Boulevard, between the ruins of fame and the fake smiles of the Chateau Marmont, where she practi- cally lived as a teenager. Maybe that’s why she hates humanity — she’s seen too much of its performance.
Ruby calls herself a trash princess, though the title feels almost ironic. With her, “trash” is never forced — it’s instinctive, elegant even. She wears chaos like a dia- mond dress and turns decadence into discipline. Her music mirrors her: sharp, venomous, wired with irony.
A child of overexposure, Ruby doesn’t seek redemp- tion; she stages her downfall and makes it look divine. Every song feels like a confession wrapped in glitter and blood, every word a way to prove that she can turn ruin into something holy.
Effortlessly destructive, uncomfortably real — Ruby is what happens when the dream factory burns and someone keeps singing through the smoke.
THE ALBUM
American Tragedy is Ruby’s scorched love letter to the broken dream. Across ten venomous tracks, she dissects fame, beauty, addiction, and the cult of perfection with irony as sharp as a blade. The album plays like a dark pageant — a series of twisted prom nights, televised meltdowns, and suburban funerals dressed in glitter.
From the cynical disco-punk of “Welcome to the Drama Club” to the scorched anthem “American Tragedy”, Ruby stages the collapse of modern America as a glamorous disaster. Every song feeds on contra- diction: rage wrapped in gloss, despair turned into spectacle. She is the cheerleader of decay, the icon who knows she’s rotting, and still smiles for the lens.
The result is an album that’s both seductive and cruel — a concept pie- ce where pop burns itself alive. American Tragedy isn’t Ruby’s confes- sion; it’s her coronation.
