Diana Vickers is only going to let you kill her Once (Once, Once, Once Yeah)

Diana Vickers was on the X-Factor a while ago and sang some songs in a funny voice and did this weird thing with her hand quite a lot. But beneath the indie-girl affectations lay a talent and certain offbeat style (offbeat in a way that was totallly digestable by record-buying, tv-watching public and mainstream media alike but offbeat nonetheless) that was largely undeniable and oozed with potential for a future in pop (despite an unfortunate camaraderie with one Eoghan Quigg). And sure enough, as soon as she was released from The X-Factor's contractual obligations (which include a tour and mugging old ladies for the amusment of Simon Cowell, I believe) she began work on proper, actual, factual solo material. Much time passed with few updates aside from the odd tweet and reassurances that Diana was working with some 'really great' people, which I suspected meant she'd show up as a featured artist on some thundering dance choon by a random Danish hardcore house band called Sweet Mouse X (or something). Turns out she was actually working with songwriting supremo Cathy Dennis (of Jentina fame) among others, and now we have a lovely little ditty called Once to show for our patience (and, to a lesser extent, Cathy and Diana's hardwork). Press Play on the beep...BEEP.



It's quite the little ditty with a mixture of mechanical blips, bleeps and beats alongside more organic guitar and piano elements and it has something of a Lykke Li's A Little Bit about it (edit: not at all). The verses are coy and filled with that trademark Vickers' sloppy diction and toffee-welding-her-teeth-together phrasing (at 0.36 I'm fairly sure she coos 'A hey ho lined fate', in other words, she's saying what we're all thinking). The highlight is quite clearly the soaring, brilliantly simple and yet undeniably catchy chorus. The middle eight should be more amazing and less 'Just get to the chorus, love' but it does the trick and overall the whole song feels like a breath of fresh air, satisfyingly moreish and just little bit quirky. The Voice is going to be devisive and the promo shot in which she has extreme bedhead (and sheets) suggest that there might be some obnoxious styling/artwork/video to come, which, in reality, is bound to win over more people as it turns off (the critics will just shout louder). But the fact is, Vickers won the nation's heart on X-Factor (until the semi-final anyway) and that's sure to translate into record sales (worked for Leon Whatsit didn't it?). Love or loathe her, this is a top-notch pop tune that makes for a pretty strong debut and as Simon Cowell would say, she sounds 'revelant' (not that one really trusts Mr. Cowell's views on revelance in pop music these days, he did, afterall, deem Don't Stop Believin' as fairly unknown). Is Diana distinct enough to stand out on a pop music landscape full of Ellies, Marinas, Florences etc.? Yes, certainly enough so that we should get at least one 6/10-or-better album out of her, and isn't that what pop dreams are made of?

Wake up in the morning feeling like a heavily auto-tuned Avril crossed with Katy by way of a lary teenager, which is understandable really...

Tik Tok, Kesha's Top 5 debut, feels like an auto-tuned anthem for the Clare's Accessories brigade to chant as the shimmy down their drainpipes and totter off to house parties where they'll no doubt ending up sicking up after a thimble of vodka and an un-inhaled cigarette. Still, sometimes a song comes with such attitude, such ridiculous lyrics and such accessibility that you can't help but sing along when they come on at a party or in a club, like a football chant for pop fans, something you and your friends can ironically scream en masse on the dance floor. That's pretty much Kesha's, and indeed Animal's, appeal, it's lowbrow, dancey, dumb but fun, trashy pop, pretension free and bursting with (often too much) energy with nary a trace depth. That will either be a draw or a turn-off depending on how you like your pop, if it's nuance, subtly, refinement or insight you're after, then you need not apply. If you're after an album chock full of alcopop-laden party tunes to blare while getting ready for a night out, then you'll be hard-pressed to find an album more suited to such requirements.

Your Love is my Drug is an 80s flavoured bit of punchy pop with a distinct whiff of Katy Perry about its soaring chorus and on overwhelming pong of Tik Tok about the verses, the lyrics are exactly as you'd imagine they'd be from the title but you've got to admire the sledge-hammer subtlety of the term 'lovesick crackhead' . Take it Off is a crunching, synthy, shimmery pop take on house, a standard issue party stomper but with a sedate 'Rapture'-esque vibe. Backstabber has a drum and bass feel to its more restrained verses that act as a nice appetiser for yet another successfully hooky chorus. Meanwhile, despite not being one of the handful of Dr. Luke productions on Animal, Party at a Rich Dude's House still feels like something the Swedish hit-maker would offer up, with its non-threatening rock guitars and 'Girls Unite' power-pop chorus. Dubious moments include the sparse, overly simplistic ands sugary Stephen; Blah, Blah Blah, featuring 3OH!3, which boasts a decent chorus feels as though these exponents of chant-along pop are on auto-pilot for the whole song; and Dinasour, a thumping, clanging, cacophony of rapping, shredding and stammering beats which is predictably about pervy old men. If Daphne and Celeste were still around (having survived several onstage bottlings presumably) this is the type of dreck they'd have too much cred to release.

And though you may come for the dance floor filler you might stay for quieter moments, and Lord knows there'd have to be some, just to give the next door neighbours and their wagging fingers a break from 'that racket'. Unsurprisingly the song entitled Hungover is the introspective respite from the debauch madness that has come before as The Fear sets in the morning after the night before, it has the feel of a vintage Lavigne ballad. Dancing With Tears in My Eyes follows the same blueprint but its tempo and beat give a little more wiggle room for a boogying (preferably while crying) and Blind is something of power-mid-tempo if such a thing exists. But Animal is best of all the breather moments, it's a big arms akimbo, sweeping anthem with ethereal verses and a crowd-pleasing chorus and you know, some singing.

And there you have it, completely daft and largely unoriginal but there's more than a handful of gems to be found here and there's a touch more variety than you may have thought. Just as Tik Tok housed a great chorus that rivals Just Dance for its instantaneous night-out-readiness there's often flashes of great pop among the trite lyrics, heavy vocoder and vocal affectations. Sure, much of it feels cribbed from Avril and Perry before her and it's not going to be the most enduring pop debut of all time but something tells me Kesha is probably a lot smarter than her music lets on. This brash, in your face and shallow pop is saleable and just might be her way of making an impression before she starts displaying more musical depth, something she only flirts causally with here. Of course she might just genuinely be a boozed-up bint but armed with the right producers she can definitely make music for other boozed-up bints to dance to!

Bloody Brilliant - The Fame Monster Review

Oh GaGa, first I strived to resist her, then I enjoyed her dancefloor-ready electropop but loathed the arty pretensions. It became harder to deny her talent when the acoustic version of Pokerface became her party piece, her impressive vocals, ivory-tickling and the fact she wrote her own tunes made her a cut above the average pop tart. Then the barmy persona began to appeal in an ironic way (tea-cup notwithstanding) nice to have a popstar that's not afraid to be, well, a popstar. Stage names, grandiose statements, ridiculous costumes, you know, a bit of show! Soon, the electro-fembot living for the Fame was taking a dark turn as her image of glitz, glamour and excess was taking a deliciously macabre turn, punctuated beautifully by a blood-spattered, onstage hanging to a chorus of camera clicks at the VMAs. A monster was born and shortly afterwards The Fame Monster arrived. Sonically, it's accessible as ever and in keeping with her debut's winning electro-pop formula but represents a progression nonetheless. She outdoes her best melodies, works with a handful of new producers (while saving her best for RedOne), adds a little more depth to her infinitely danceable ditties and marries it all to an intriguing, if somewhat superfluous, monster motif.

As if to illustrate this, things kick off with Bad Romance, a pop juggernaut with all the hallmarks of a RedOne/GaGa creation but with a delightful horror twist, as Lady G slurs hungrily, 'I want your ugly, I want your disease'. You know how Pokerface is a highlight of The Fame, all towering choruses and bombastic nonsense spouted with panache? Well, Bad Romance is like its eccentric older sister who storms into Pokerface's sweet 16 birthday party and completely steals focus as all of its friends flock over to this mad but brilliant older sibling and marvel at its charisma. Monster's no slouch either, it's not as macabre or delivered with such relish as Bad Romance but its bloodthirsty lyrics combined with pure 80s froth is an irresistible combination. Elsewhere, Teeth invites you to take a bite of GaGa's 'bad girl meat' and as such is mad as a bus stop and, while somewhat unwieldy, its marching band beat and general S&M-flavoured battiness keep you hooked till the end, even if it doesn't quite work as a closer. But it's not all about bloodlust, Alejandro is sublime, sun-kissed, melodic gorgeousness, with heavenly Ace of Base-style undulating beats. A touch darker is Dance in the Dark, a spine-tingling ode to wronged women with a unavoidably massive chorus. Telephone, the most out and out dance track on here, sees about 50 hooks whiz by your ears through its three and half minute runtime with a show-stealing turn from a thoroughly Sasha Fierce-ified Beyonce and one of those effortless hooks where GaGa threatens to hum Agadoo and your powerless to anything other than eat it up with glee and dance.

At eight tracks long it's fairly fat-free with the pace rarely letting up. So Happy I Could Die is some what poorly-titled, So Nonplussed I Could Deliver a serviceable Mid-Tempo that Never Delivers The Massive Chorus it Hints At would be more appropriate but once you've accepted that it's not another club ready stomper, it's self-loving, sparkly yet sedate lilt has a certain charm. And standing out from all of this oh-so-electronic, danceable lushness is Speechless, also known as GaGa's best ballad. It's raw, poignant, heartfelt and unabashedly harkens back to the big piano ballads of the 80s while remaining anchored by the touching yet pained message at its core. It's a completely unexpected highlight that isn't done justice plonked in the middle of the tracklist. All things considered, it's about a mile of hair extensions better than Again, Again or Brown Eyes with it's genuinely emotional, alcohol-stained lyrics and Gaga's ballsy but vulnerable delivery.

Where she was once bluffin' with her muffin', asking boys to buy her eggs in the morning and getting her ass squeezed by sexy cupid she's now name-checking tragic women in history, calling out to her Dad to put the bottle down and referencing Hitchock by way of inviting her bad boy lover to show the her his darkest side. Which, in GaGa terms, represent a little more lyrical depth. All of this wrapped up in superb productions, irresistible melodies and confident vocals. So for as long as this iteration of Gaga lasts (re-invention surely can't be far off), this is a winning expansion of the fame era and proves beyond doubt that Pokerface was no fluke. At the start of 2009 she was hailed as one to watch and the exciting thing is, we've already seen so much and yet she's still very much worth keeping an eye on..

Am I scaring you tonight? Rihanna takes a dark turn - Rated R Review

Oooh, isn't is dark, hasn't she been through an awful time of it, hasn't her image toughened and her sound with it, all four letter words, hard beats and lines as macabre as 'I lick the gun when I'm done because I know revenge is sweet'. Well whatever, we shan't mention the C-word (Chris or c**t, your choice) and we'll just say this. Rated R is a slick, cohesive, harder and, yes, dark album. Pon de Replay? A distant memory! SOS? Not a chance! Umbrella, "when the sun shines we'll shine together", hardly! Even the thematically similar Disturbia is too broad and poppy for the claustrophobic beats and hardened snarl of what's on offer here. Only Rehab or Question Existing from her breakthrough multi-platinum hit GGGB with their more sedate sound and introvert lyrics of dysfunctional relationships and self-reflection come close to what Rated R is about.

Things start off a little rocky, with the stronger and more varied melodies and production not kicking in until the second half. In the meantime the first 5 tracks feel either ill-fitting, try-hard or even samey. There's a superfluous intro, a laughable Unfaithful-esque and frankly immature ballad called Stupid Love and even second single Hard lacks a great chorus and features extraneous rap. However, from the chillingly atmospheric lead single Russian Roulette onwards, the album hits its stride. The sweeping and rather epic chorus of kleptomaniac love-story Fire Bomb impresses; Rude Boy begs to be a single with it's infectious chorus and dancehall vibe; the Mediterranean strings of Te Amo and the bi-curious romance within intrigue and seduce; while the sedate Photographs is 75% understated, minimilstic lament, 25% Will.i.am (read: shallow, simplistic shit). The brooding Cold Case Love is brought to you by Justin Timberlake with those vintage Futuresex beats and guitars at his disposal, though it doesn't quite justify its 6 minute running time. G4L (the one with the aforementioned gun-licking, well, lick) for all its swagger is a little silly, Ri-ri seems to be heading a gang of heavily armed, pissed-off females but despite this, the sparse beat and Rihanna's relish make it work.

More rewarding on repeat listens than GGGB, but at the expense of being anywhere near as instant or party-ready, Rated R represents growth, maturity and an attempt at making a sound that is Rihanna's own. The lyrics, production, imagery and general presentation all compliment each other, not least in a pop landscape dominated by 8os nostalgia, clubby synths and RedOne shout-outs. And while it mightn't dominate the dance floor it should certainly resonate with her fans more than anything she's put out before. With GGGB Rihanna the hit machine fembot arrived, with Rated R we begin to scratch the shiny exterior and she a little of what lies within, and it strikes a surprisingly deft balance between style and substance.

VV Brown - Travelling Like the Light - Either this flies off the shelves or next year she'll be stacking them....

VV Brown is a little irritating, perched on her Vespa, strumming her one-string guitar and brimming full of affectations but like GaGa, who's taken to wearing gimp masks during press conferences, these quirks are much easier to swallow when there's talent behind the persona. VV's got that, her brand of doo-wop indie (as she's calling it) is brimming full of charm, energy and generally catchy hooks but it feels as though she's fighting tooth and nail just to stay afloat long enough for her to get one designer but oh-so-retro stiletto in the door. Enter Shark in the Water, its Top 40 placing might just be a sign of the commercial tide finally turning in her favour. It's not hard to see why it has captured the public's imagination, it features an effervescence that matches that of the Tesco Fizzy Wine she was no doubt popping while listening to Sunday's Chart Show and it feels every inch the Summer Tune, all sunny with an irresistible fresh flavour and impressively big chorus. Then again, previous releases have hardly been alienating, the jaunty 50s swing of Crying Blood couldn't be more accessible, it's main hook is built on the Monster Mash for Goodness sake while Leave! is a break-up anthem that feels vaguely like Kate Nash's Foundations but more like an actual song (with a tear-jerking middle eight and string-drenched bridge) rather than a mardy diary entry. Why they didn't catch on, who knows (though some might point the finger at some Record Company pratfalls and a lack of support from Radio 1) either way, things are on the up and whether those singles climbed the charts or never saw the inside of the Top 100, they are indisputably charming and rather diverse (while clearly cohesive) tastes of what VV has to offer and they set the bar high for her debut album.

Shame then, that Travelling like the Light kicks off in such unspectacular fashion with Quick Fix, a clattering up-tempo with a 60s rock and roll twist and Game Over, a confident kiss off which is so predictably soul-pop that it probably slipped out of Anastasia's haversack on her way to the studio. They're both amiable and catchy enough but wasn't the whole point of VV that she had something new to offer, or at least a new slant on an era not overly mined by current popstars and yet this is all a touch ordinary and worse still, forgettable. But then in swoops Bottles, with its menacing twang and clever take on '10 green bottles sitting on a wall' swiftly followed by the understated, dramatic flair of soulful mid-tempo Back in Time. And then there's the vintage crackle of I Love You, a stripped back, piano-led profession of love, that combines with a velvety vocal to create a lush and sumptuous respite from the toddler-post-SunnyD-binge-level of energy that has permeated this serving of musical mash potatoes (another one of VV's little descriptions, remember when I called her irritating earlier?). Just as the singles prove VV's ability to get the toe-tapping to her doo-wop swing, these songs see her more than capable of producing slick and coy pop with soulful flair. The peppy sway of Crazy Amazing continues the retro soul vibe of the singles and also includes a sweet sample of chopsticks which is a cute little touch and finally, on the title track she just shuts up and sings and it makes for a convincing and moving piano ballad. It's a sedate closer that's a far cry from the pained, top-of-her-lungs yelp that opened the album some 40 minutes previous.

A strong identity, a diverse vocal style, an ear for a hook and a certain way with words should all secure VV a place among La Roux and Florence as another surprise inhabitant of the upper echelons of the album chart. Travelling Like the Light's success, or possible lack thereof, will prove once and for all, if there really is a demand for Vanessa Brown the popstar. There certainly should be, the retro schtick is rarely intrusive or overbearing and songs on offer more than prove that VV's as exciting an addition to the pop charts as any of the many females who have shaped the sound of 2009 thus far. If those who follow her on Twitter, caught her on Jools Holland or read a positive review in their Sunday Broadsheet buy the album, all well and good but what VV needs is for people to add this album to their trolleys during their weekly shop at Asda. When the mass market speaks up the appropriate outlets should take notice and VV might just be met with the success she's craved, and many would argue, deserved from the start. If the record-buying public don't take to it, her next Twitter update might see her declaring that she's riding her Vespa into pop oblivion and that would be a crying shame...

Florence + The Machine = Florchine - Lungs Review

Tiring of relentless 80s synthpop? Well then allow the lush, grandiose, layered and rich sound of Florence and the Machine's folk-tinged indie-pop wash over you with it's mournful wails and twinkling harp strings acting as the perfect antidote to the endless clattering of synths that have dominated the musical landscape as of late. Florence Welch is the winner of the Brits' Critic's Choice award which means if you don't like her you're a tasteless philistine, but if you have the gall to enjoy her music you're nothing but a pawn in the hype machine. With Adele, last year's winner, one couldn't help but feel that she was being awarded for the raw talent on offer rather than the strength of her material but with Florence there's so much more than just oodles of potential and some pretty love songs, there's a stunning debut that justifies its accolades with aplomb.

It's all mainly haunting, tumbling, all-encompassing lusciousness but there's a enough diversity to keep the big moments feeling impressive and the more understated moments feeling refreshing. The soaring Dog Days Are Over, the sweeping drama and sinister bloodlust of Howl and the achingly beautiful war cry of Cosmic Love are epic laments. Meanwhile, Kiss with a Fist is all rugged drumbeats and purring guitars and the jazzy saunter of Girl With One Eye is cocksure vocal showcase and sadistic ditty about retribution that explodes with oh-so-satisfying passion. Drumming Song combines an earthy bombast and sense of scale with a towering vocal and pounding drums while the simple vulnerability of her You've Got the Love cover is captivating.

The swelling strings, luscious lilt and hypnotic, fearless vocal combine to craft a sensual, dark, other-worldly and evocative sound which combines ornate arrangements with a certain primal rawness that captures the imagination and grips you from start to finish. Florence may come with a machine in tow but there's nothing mechanical about the sprawling, organic beauty of this epic debut, it's the heart that beats at its centre that makes it so special. Quite simply, Lungs is a breath of fresh air.

La Roux - La Revieoux

Synths were in, as were female artists flogging 80s electropop and L was the monogram de jour. But, thing is, only the workmanlike, stringent promotion of Lady GaGa's global brand had gleaned commercial success where Ladyhawke and Little Boots were fighting tooth and nail just to dent the top 75. And then who should swan into the top 3? A po-faced androgyne, taking style tips from Adam Ant with a vocal like a pre-pubertal choir boy testing his highest register mid-castration, surely a love it or hate it, acquired taste? The video and promotion weren't any great shakes either, team this the aforementioned marmite factor and who could have guessed that La Roux would land a number 2 debut and a follow-up single rocketing straight to the top? If her self-titled debut follows suit, sullen front woman ( La Roux are a duo, with an enigmatic co-writer/producer male cohort, Ben Langmaid, looming in the shadows a la The Eurythmics) might muster up the mirth to crack a celebratory smile. She may have good reason for icy facade, La Roux is all about a break-up you see. No wonder then, that onstage, Elly looks like a grumpy teenager reluctantly pushed into a school talent show by an overbearing music teacher, she's performing songs that are based on the annals of her young, once-broken heart. Blood on the Tracks it ain't but there's more emotional heft here than such synth-led, 80s froth ought to boast.

Listeners should already be familiar with the sleeper hit In for the Kill, the vocal is either winning or a deal breaker and it does have a certain intensity that only lets up for the falsetto-laden middle eight but the innately satisfying hook and fresh take on revelling in the retro makes it a bit of a winner. Second single Bulletproof is immediately more likeable, she swaps her ear-piercing vocal razor blades for a more accessible, if a little whiny, traditional pop vocal as the catchy funk of the Cassio keyboard and drum machine combine, along with a brilliantly simple and consciousness-seeping chorus and take hold. I'm Not Your Toy feels as though it's attempting to reach the lofty heights of Bulletproof's effortless bounce, albeit in a more minimalist fashion, however, it lacks a little momentum with the catchiest crescendo of the song reached before the plodding chorus even kicks in, a grower moreso than anything. Something decidedly more instant is Tigerlily, the first sign of La Roux's potential for real genius outside the generally crowd-pleasing singles. It's a an ode to lovelorn obsession by way of a deranged stalking metaphor via a demented ZX Spectrum and affected vocal with a spoken-word bridge in an ominous baritone that'd give Vincent Price the heebee-geebees. Light relief comes in the form of frothy Fascination and pulsating Reflections with their amiable buoyancy and satisfying crunch of synths,

But for all the bravado on show there, the finest moments of La Roux's running time come when things slow down. A blatant play for heart-strings-tuggage comes in the form of the indisputably pretty Cover My Eyes which reveals a softer more vulnerable side while feeling completely true to the tone of the album as a whole, even with the presence of a choir, yes, a choir. The unvarnished, heart-breaking honesty of "Every time I see you walking with her I have to cover my eyes" is almost childlike and the feeling of pain it subtly conveys is almost palpable. As if By Magic isn't of quite the same tear-jerking proportions but maintains a gentle poignancy, there's a certain ambiguity to the lyrics that leave it open to interpretation as though it's daring you not to relate to it in some way or another. Elsewhere Love Armour, combines the softest of bruised vocals with the unwavering buzz and whir of crisp beats and bubbling synths. Funny how the use of nothing more than the simple plink of keyboards and some synthesised beats can convey emotions far from synthetic. It's with both of these songs that La Roux proves that 'soulful' warblers don't have the monopoly on emotion in pop. Leona Lewis can butcher Snow Patrol's back catalogue, ballgown and dodgy weave in tow as she simpers about a forest for the rest of her days, even with all the C6 notes in the world she could never hope to muster up the same succinct encapsulation of heartbreak in such an effortlessly deft fashion.

As mentioned, La Roux was mostly written on Jackson's arrival in Splitsville and as such, the album's musical tone cleverly progresses from the initial intensity of cross words and that painful parting of ways before revealing a front that everything's okay only for the bravado to be stripped away on Cover My Eyes as it beckons a tear-stained reprieve. The dawn breaks and tears are wiped away for Fascination and the mood perks but by the closing track there's a reassurance that this wasn't just a puppy love but a the real deal that's left its mark. Isn't that clever? A seemingly angular, robotic slice of pop that, in actuality, is all stuffed full of snotty Kleenex and hastily torn love letters and candid Polaroids with a genuine progression from track to track, resulting in a cohesive album, the likes of which don't come along too often these days. In the era of iTunes making playlists and re-jigging tracklistings is all too easy, but even if, for some reason, you wanted to shuffle La Roux's tracks around, you'd feel guilty, knowing that that's how it should be heard. It's not as fun as Little Boots or as effortless as Ladyhawke but it's shrewder, the real McCoy, there's certain weight and level of commitment behind the 1980s nostalgia and, surprisingly for debut, a sense of gravitas. If the record-buying public take to this album as they have to her material thus far, then the pain of that oh-so prevalent break-up may have been worth it, anyway, musician's don't suffer enough for their art these days...