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Lauren Ruth Ward spits fire. She always has. Her vocal lashes are cut from a Janis Joplin cloth, and her configurations are nearly as gutsy, raw, and unruly. Ward\u2019s second album, Vol. II<\/em>, is a real soul-shocker of a collection \u2500 she douses musical gasoline all over the place, lights a match, and lets it all go up in flames. The trail she blazes is personal, hyper-political, and indebted to queer womanhood.<\/p>\n But who the fuck is Lauren Ruth Ward<\/a>?<\/p>\n She\u2019s a reckless rabble-rouser who scavenges humanity\u2019s stunning misery and collects the damages as trinkets. Her work to-date \u2500 including 2016\u2019s self-titled EP<\/a> and 2018\u2019s Well, Hell<\/em><\/a> \u2500 shoots from the hip with an Annie Oakley precision, a western drawn that makes her tough as nails and seemingly unconquerable.<\/p>\n A Los Angeles transplant, by way of Baltimore, Ward smacks away any conventions and all expectations. Her 2018 release led to signing with Weekday Records, under the Sony umbrella, but when the indie label folded in late 2018, she was left with three songs in her arsenal, among them her punky \u201cValhalla\u201d opener. It\u2019s a bespeckled setpiece that strains past traumas out of her bone marrow. \u201cI ate shit on the walk of fame,\u201d she chews and spits onto hardened rock chords.<\/p>\n