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...

Big Trouble in Little Boots - Hands Review (there is, of course, no trouble but witty post titles are not my forte)

I don't know what a Dubree Styophone is or what I'd do were I handed something called a Tenori-on but Little Boots seems to have an idea as these are some of the unorthodox instruments she makes us of to create her thoroughly electronic sound. Indeed, the album isn't the most organic sounding and each song certainly feels as though it's been cut from the same 1980s electro-glam cloth but my, isn't it a cohesive, slick and exciting record? All lean and shrewd in taking special care not to outstay its welcome but tantalising for the duration of it's well-judged stay. This whole 'litany of solo female singers unleashing this synth-heavy 80s revival lark onto the pop charts' angle might be wearing a tad thin but do bare in mind that before this craze the Mark Ronson trumet brigade that was the sound de jour. By comparison, shiny, robotic pop with a sweet tone is a welcome respite. Her first proper single release came recently in the form of New In Town which blends a Goldfrapp vocal, a saucy kylie wink, some crunchy synths and hip, young sass to make a pleasing opening track and debut single for uber-hyped, critical darling but ironically, it doesn't really do her justice. The big chorus is a little too poppy by way of bratty for its own good but the sashay of the verses and the luxuriant middle eight hint at greatness. Can the rest of the album build on this promising blueprint?

It would seem so. The robotic Stuck on Repeat is sublime, haunting and effective as it builds, ascends, drops out and reaches a thrilling crescendo. Earthquake's whirring synths and electronic beats serve as a canvas for a light but affected vocal as the subject matter of the age old domestic is compared to natural disasters. It's a would-be brooding lament hid beneath a neat little analogy but the harmonies and big chorus don't let on, sonically frothy but lyrically a little bruised. Click has a touch of The Knife about it, a smoky, creeping melody with an ominous instrumental while Meddle boasts an electronic stomp and an undulating beat that sucks you in. Phil Oakley pops round on Symmetry and delivers a booming chorus and a spoken word bridge with all the bombast one would expect from the man who so famously asked 'Don't you want me baby?'. And cleverly enough on Ghost, though entirely electronic, Little Boots manages to conjure up a welcome touch of theatrics with a marching band beat stuttering away like something from a bygone arcade cabinet.

It's not all effortless cool and weighty electronica though. Remedy, though indisputably catchy, flirts far too closely with faceless, Cascada-style, dancefloor filler banality. A stammering baseline and a restrained tone are all that holds it from requiring a music video featuring Little Boots straddling a greased-up backing dancer in a suitably ethnically diverse but tastefully PG nightclub. Having said that, if any song on here is going to give this girl a hit (and maybe even a Eurovision entry), Remedy's her best shot. Meanwhile, the MOR bop of Tune into My Heart shouldn't win her any fans, it also features a somewhat ropey metaphor, but that's sort of a running theme here. A not entirely convincing maths motif lies at the core Mathematics which, whether intentional or not, has a delightfully campy edge to it balanced by a deadpan delivery and rather sparse production building into a pleasingly beefy chorus. And the staccato No Brakes likens a doomed relationship to an automobile, 'No heart brakes' gettit? It hints at greatness but has engine trouble along the way (oh dear...)

Steely and electronic, any warmth emanating from Hands is courtesy of Hesketh's restrained yet emotive - but hardly spectacular - vocal, the album is never cold or industrial but it is lacking in a certain richness that perhaps comes with the use of instruments with names as seemingly ad-libbed as a stylophone. There is, however, a certain shimmering effervesence to the whole affair and the fact is, there's plenty to love here; the poppy hooks, the cucumber cool demeanour, the lyrical flourishes and sheer listenability of the whole album as a body of work from start to finish. Is it deserving of the critical praise heaped upon her, who's to say? Jesus probably won't appear before you when you listen to it, so nix that thought in case BBC's accolades has you thinking such a divine occurrence was possible in the presence of Little Boot's dulcet tones. But if he did happen to appear, on other business we'll say, I'd like to think he'd appreciate the fresh sounding take on the 80s and the consistently strong and relentlessly memorable melodies - was that blasphemous? Oh well...

Hands is certainly deserving of commercial success. Where many a fashion-foward synth-loving lady has tried and largely fizzled, Little Boots may succeed with this is a finely crafted, electropop album, that wonderfully, is pretension free. It has a certain cool factor but not in a way that's at all alienating and it joyously revels in big choruses and chart-ready hooks without feeling focus-group tested. With that in mind, there's no reason that Little Boots and her Tenori-on can't beep, plink and coo all the way to the bank with this one...

Move over Phieffer, your Ladyhawke title has well and truly been usurped! (Sorry it's late, the dog ate my review...)

With the re-release of Ladyhawke's rollicking Paris is Burning it seemed that the big wigs spearheading this project were demanding that we sit up and take notice, not just of the relatively overlooked single which crept into the Top 75 way back in June '08, but of the Lady herself and indeed her debut, self-titled album. The single begins with a hook that Gary Numan's car would be proud of before throwing to a wistful chorus. It would seem that this re-release guff didn't quite do the trick as the single made only a modest climb into the top 50 this time but the album did enjoy a slight boost and some increased exposure. And while chart domination may not have beckoned, it's the re-release that brings me to this (ridiculously tardy) review and what a shame it would have been had this impressive release had passed me by. 

Quite simply this is an album of heady, 80s brand electronica with the stomping, chill-inducing Magic kicking things off excellently and the pace rarely letting up from then on. As a child of the 90s who takes only cursory glances into music's rear-view mirror there's no chance that I could name-check every artist of 1980s that Ladyhawke references here in one form or another but the all the calling cards are there for all to see even if specific names fail to come to mind. Blaring sirens, stomping electro beats, punchy drums, gnarly guitars and shrewd synths all feature heavily and mesh together wonderfully with Ladyhawke's matter of fact delivery of simply quite cool, nonchalant lyrics to create a modern slant on retro cool with a shaggy indie aesthetic. 

The tone of the album strikes a successful balance between breezy; like on the guitar-led Another Runaway or the airy Love Don't Live Here; and funky in the form of Professional Suicide which is an irresistible blend of electro funk and rock guitars. A softer side rears its delightful head towards the album's finale with the restrained guitars and gentle plinks of Crazy World's verses building for a top-notch chorus and Morning Dreams boasting a, dare I say, dreamier quality with an ethereal vocal and swaying guitar strings. However, while Better Than Sunday would probably make a great Ting Tings b-side, for Ladyhawke it's just a touch dull and suffers from having little to say. But this one questionable moment aside this is a debut album with an alarmingly high success rate; sometimes the overall impact of the music here can be dulled by a slightly feeling of familiarity from one song to the next but it rarely disrupts the enjoyment of the material. 

Overall it's sort of like the synth-laden electro pop chic of Roisin Murphy but with less high fashion posturing and claustrophobic beats and more of indie-rock edge. A tad repetitive and derivative? Perhaps, but I say it's cohesive and walks the line favourably between homage and pastiche. You see, it's the beats, the clever production, her ever so slightly detached yet evocative vocal that all combine to make a highly listenable and instantly accessible, well made slice of pop-rock by way of 80s electronica with splashes of funk and lashings of effortlessly cool edge. While it’s clear that Ladyhawke should be showered with success and recognition there’s nothing to say that this is an artist who won’t grow and develop by her second album and beyond. Chart success is a fickle thing, for every critical darling underdog defying commercial expectations, there’s a cheap talent show export meeting them exactly with an ill-deserved number one. At least Ladyhawke can hold her head up high with the quality of material on offer here, can the likes of Eoghan Quigg and his cover of Year 3000 do the same?

Disco Sticks, Muffin' Bluffin' and Playboy Mouths, All in a day for the Gaga - The Fame Review

I thought I could resist. over-styled (but magnificently so), over-hyped (but who isn't in an era of internet buzz?) and overly keen to be seen as unique but of course we know this isn't true. Her initially Gwen Stefani-esque aesthetic tarted up with some Bowie-style lightening bolts and 1970/80s-themed homemade couture and grandiose stage name initially led me to believe that she would be more unorthodox in her musical style. Imagine my surprise then to find backing dancers, synchronised routines, sexy skin flashing and radio-friendly poppy hooks. Sure it was exquisitely polished with a fabulously-styled exterior, but she's no subversive musical oddity. Of course, she shouldn't have to be, but I can't help but feel that her image demands she be seen as such.

And so I tried to resist, determined not to get sucked in by the hype machine, but Just Dance, her debut, chart-blazing single, is a force to be reckoned with. Its simple but relentless hook, grimy keyboards and funky electro beat make in an irresistible feel-good, night out delight. Her follow up, Poker Face most definitely follows the same blueprint but with a more outright Britney-style pop chorus in contrast with the stomping, strutting card-game innuendo-laced verses. There's also a cheeky attempt at rapping that feels dangerously close to Fergie ('I'm bluffin' with my muffin') but she just about gets away with it.

The rest of the album never quite reaches the same furiously addictive heights. In terms of up-tempo, high energy dance tunes there's the synthy LoveGame with its strong beat but crude lyrics and lazy rhymes, there's also this nagging feeling that it sounds like a reject from Gwen Stefani's Sweet Escape album. More successful are Beautiful Dirty Rich; a smoky, decadent, slinking beat-driven semi-rapped mid-tempo delivered with relish; and Money Honey, a bassy, attitude-packed slice of funk in a similar vein to Just Dance. Elsewhere title-track, The Fame (which has a touch of Faster Kill Pussycat about its intro), is a catchy marriage of guitar and electronica-lite while Boys Boys Boys and Somerboy are flirty eighties electro confections with a frothy choruses.

There are also more honest moments when the retro cool shades come off and the Gaga moniker is dropped for a glimpse behind the glamour, most notably Again, Again. It's a departure from the usual preening electro-pop with rawer, rockier tale of frustration set a forceful piano riff with punchy drums and guitar. However, both this track and Brown Eyes do feel a little at odds with the rest of the style over substance synth-based stomp that's on offer here, despite providing some welcome depth (though the difference isn't much more than the depth of a pothole when compared to, say, a puddle). A decidedly more mawkish attempt at sentimentality is Eh, Eh which could literally be released by any teeny bopper popstrel. It's a soft, plinking love song that's bland and radio-friendly to a level of pandering. A more successful take on a softer side is Paparazzi, a mid-tempo love song set to a 'paps seek celebs' metaphor with the bombast and drama of the confident, spiky verses melting pleasingly into a syrupy chorus.

Lyrically GaGa's got one track mind with one theme of fame, riches and glamour being loosely touched upon throughout and the results are generally as vapid as one would expect but rarely intrusive. There's nothing profound, earth-shattering or even clever to be found amongst the funky beats and dirty electro snarl. GaGa's vocals, meanwhile, convey attitude, flirtation, sweetness and a little angst whenever is appropriate without ever really being challenged. And so, in the end, The Fame is worth a listen for a rather strong selection of catchy, danceable electro pop tunes with a veneer so glossy you could check your hair in it but it just don't expect it to deliver upon the promise of its avante garde exterior. Because, when all is said and done, GaGa is just your average wannabe pop princess with delusions of grandeur that she can't quite live up to. Having said that, there's no denying that this girl can pen a memorable hook and grab your attention on the dance floor, just don't expect anything here to truly resonate with you once you've hung up your discostick for the night.

EDIT: So it turns out I've reviewed the Original Edition as apposed to the UK&Ireland Edition which includes all the above mentioned tracks as well as three new additions. First off there's the rather forgettable and utterly generic Starstruck which opens with the Gagster spewing yet more nonsense in her robotic drawl and proceeding to spout gibberish throughout. It features a passably catchy chorus (GaGa giveth) as well a tiresome rap cameo (GaGa taketh away). This is followed by the half-baked Paper Gangsta with its mind-numbing chorus that seems to retract her previous statements regarding her desire for all things fabulous (it also claims that she doesn't want some flash faker, erm, pot, kettle, black?) and finally there's the I Like it Rough which is nothing more than yet another serviceable synth-laden electro jam (anyone hoping for a sudden daliance with acid jazz, new age or bluegrass will be disappointed). Give it a rest woman and leave things as they are instead of bloating what was a consistently strong tracklisting with more of the same only weaker. If too much of a good thing is possible then too much of the same basic things rejiggered 15 times is certainly possible, this is one for hardcore GaGa-ites only.

When Comic Relief-related over-exposure beckons, you sit up and finally review their album: The Saturdays - Chasing Lights Review

The Saturdays have proven that they can colour code Topshop's finest clobber like no one's business but can they make an worthwhile pop album to justify the title of the Next Girls Aloud? Erm, no but they can serve up a collection of slickly produced (if slightly dated), serviceable electro-pop tunes with some r'n'b edge. There's occasional spurts of balladry and a handful of mid-tempo numbers but, all told, this is a fairly brief, by-the-numbers affair.

Keep Her, for all its synth-laden drum and bass aspirations, is nothing more than a 'been there, done than' Girl Power break-up lament. The funky Work boasts a catchy chorus and along with the superb Up (which is far and away the best track on offer here) is a standout up-tempo. Both are confident, strutting and successfully hooky. Set Me Off is no slouch either with its big chorus, electro beats and plinks and some menacing guitar strings. On the slowie front there's the vocally accomplished and infectious Issues which, despite sounding more than just a tad generic, wins points for not be a dour, joyless full-on ballad like, oh, say, the clunky, piano-led Fall. Elsewhere the jaunty Why Me, Why Now and the title track Chasing Lights are pleasing, more acoustic sounding numbers.

Vocally the girls aren't all that distinct as individuals, save for Vanessa's caterwauling and Una's huskier tones, but together they harmonise sweetly. The lyrics offer little of interest, managing to avoid cringe-inducing but always walking the line of trite, dull and a little lazy. Other than that there's not a lot to say really. There's none of the Sugababe's moody edge or creative input and there's none of Girls Aloud's infectious playfulness or varied, clever production. However, it is a cut above the average wannabe girl band output with enough catchy ditties and all important potential to secure their status as ones to watch, if nothing else.

It's Not Alright, It's Exceptional - Well I was never gonna give it a bad review, was I?

Ms. Allen was once a mockney chavette and MySpace Queen in a prom dress, Nikes and sweetly singing razor sharp vulgarities over a peppy ska pop melodies amid some sideward glances about being Keith Allen's daughter. Whatever the tabloids had to say, whatever scandal followed her, whatever negativity may have been thrown her way it didn't matter, Alright, Still was an addictive slice of original, well-produced, witty pop with an acidic tongue and ferocious bite; just what the genre needed. Now she returns to scene after an all-too-lengthy hiatus and now it seems the dubby beats and classic ska samples have gone the way of her mock-gold hoops and frilly dresses. Instead stands a sleek, more media savvy (if not media wary) mature pop princess back at number one again with The Fear. Her last number one, Smile, was a perfect representation of the album it was lifted from, the sweetest of sweet infectious melodies counteracted with cutting lyrics of ex-girlfriend scorned. Just the same The Fear is very much an indication of It's Not Me, It's You, the lyrics are as biting as ever but this time the scope is broadened beyond relationship pratfalls and onto a bang upto date social commentary set to a more ethereal, William Orbit-esque electro musical style.

And this is the blueprint that Lily's sophomore effort follows while shaking things up along the away to achieve a sound that is cohesive throughout but varied enough to feel fresh until the end. In terms of thought-provoking lyrics It's Not Me delivers, 22 is a piano-led commentary on a youth obsessed society disregarding female celebrities once they've hit their supposed sell by date. Everyone's At It's thumping beat and blaring sirens set the scene as Lily questions today's drug culture, pointing out that it extends beyond the grimy street dealers and into the civilised society "grown politicians to young adolescents prescribing themselves anti-depressants,". Some slightly more questionable sources of inspiration include former President (emphasis on the former) G.W Bush in the hilariously direct, chiming nursery rhyme Fuck You which includes a chipmunk-worthy key change. Yes, it may feel a little dated already but it's an anthem and there are plenty of prejudiced bigots and duff politicians in the world that the song can be directed at. Anyone worried that Lily has left behind her trademark tales of relationship woes needn't fret, Not Fair is basically Not Big p.2 only in the form of country and western ho-down and an irresistibly infectious hook. Never Gonna Happen is pure concentrated rejection in the form of a polka (if you can believe it) with a devastatingly blunt middle eight; imagine being dumped by a chorus in a specially penned musical number.

Allen's new electro sound works beautifully throughout, Back to the Start's frenzied, breathless, cluttered chorus contrasts effectively with the haunting verses that apologise to her sister for resenting her set to a stomping beat and bass-laden synth and the aforementioned Everyone's At It feels like The Killers circa Hot Fuss (i.e before Flowers became a pseudo-philosophical fashionista oddball). The sound also translates successfully to quieter moments such as the lush I Could Say and the sweet and sincere love note Who'd Have Known (which has lost some of its raw, intimate charm in translation for demo to copyright-infringement free finished project). A surprise highlight is the airy, simple and charming Chinese an ode to the banal details of everyday life that become so significant when you've been away from them for long enough. There's even an attempt at a more acoustic sound, laden with electric plinks and a pulsating beat of course, with Him, a sometimes slightly cringe-inducing but generally astute and witty 'hymn' regarding what the big man upstairs would be like were he here today. And the album closes with the vintage twang of He Wasn't There, a song that fully accepts and reveres her father in spite of and even due to all his flaws.

It's Not Me, It's You is a stellar follow-up to the brilliant Alright, Still it maintains many of the best qualities that made that debut so special while developing them into a more mature and refined sound. It all just works wonderfully as a body of work, flowing from song to song provoking thought, smiles, perhaps the odd tear and every note of it rings utterly sincere and personal; a rare quality that makes this album a worthy investment. I could say that it sets a new benchmark for modern pop albums but this seems a rather meagre accolade when written in black and white and one that doesn't quite do this humorous, heartfelt, honest and creative triumph justice.

More Leftovers, This Time a Duffy Curry - Rockferry Review

Duffy can't half sing, this neo-soul songstress walks the line between Dusty and Amy with her soulful sixties sound and brassy, powerful vocals, capable of packing a punch as well as sweetly serenading. Thing is, she's not terribly exciting, not that she has to be, but this is an era where sisters are doing it for themselves from Queen of MySpace Lily and Queen of Rehab Amy to Cockney Angel-voiced Adele and Po-faced, three-chord botherer Nash bashing boyfriends and promoting oral hygiene. Stood next to her peers Duffy comes up short in the personality stakes. She doesn't feel terribly original, sure she's a vocally accomplished throwback with a fantastic first single but that can't sustain the public's interest. Her debut album, Rockferry, is perfectly lovely, often excellent and those who enjoy anything they've heard of the Welsh songstress thus far should take it as a safe bet that they'll enjoy listening to this in their car. It's just a bit vanilla, classy, simple, elegant, enjoyable but lacking in personality or variety. This doesn't cripple the album's success, what it sets out to do, it succeeds at but with such allusions to a great talent here there should be more.

The album makes a strong first impression with its title track which begins with an intro befitting of a Bond theme before slinking through a thumping beat to an anthemic finale of guitar strings and Duffy's impressive set of pipes being unleashed over a ferocious middle-eight. Elsewhere it's the singles that serve as the main highlights here. The simple, elegant and poignant Warwick Avenue is a vintage, soppy love ballad and it's velvety, heartfelt vocal, simple but effective instrumentation and gradual build-up. Noir-edged piano ballad Stepping Stone seems to ask you to drape yourself across a grand piano in a sequin dress with it's vintage soul vibe and Duffy's vocal restraint is much appreciated as this classy tune doesn't need much embellishment to make an impact. And my oh my, Mercy's very bloody good isn't it? "Hit the beat and take it to the verse now," she purrs before all hell breaks loose, this is a sublime retro-pop groove that demands a boogie 'round the wireless. A similar vibe can be found on Delayed Devotion and I'm Scared albeit with less vocal bombast. Duffy does Dusty in Syrup and Honey which begs to be played on a Wherletzer. This is a vocal showcase set to simple strings and just when you think it's about to explode, it doesn't and the song is all the better for it. It pauses for breath before jamming to a fade as Ms. Duffy ad-libs us out and Hanging on too Long packs a punch in the chorus.

Beyond that there's pleasant mediocrity in the form of Serious, a soft and dreamy number that plinks and twinkles pleasingly enough but doesn't really evoke much of a reaction beyond that. Unfortunately it's overlong and Duffy's vocals are almost intrusive, their strength harsh what should be mellow. Things almost come full circle when Distant Dreamer employs a similar wall-of-sound technique that Rockferry kicked things off with but set to a more mellow, dreamy vocal. It's a perfect closer, soft enough to bid adieu to the listener but packing enough of a punch to make a memorable and moreish finale. One might want to play Mercy again as an encore, because all said and done, that's still the best track on here. And therein lies the flaw, if you can call it that, of Duffy's debut. It's perfectly polished, well-produced, mostly vocally impressive and oozing a sophistication with a touch of retro class. But it never takes you anywhere beyond the obvious. This album doesn't represent the next big thing in music, it represents potential and it's where Duffy will take her sound next that intrigues more than the album itself. There's nothing to dislike per se except the absence of something to really love that's specific to Duffy herself.

Christmas Leftovers - Britney's Circus Review

Britney's back with the appropriately titled Circus, hailed as her big comeback album after 07's producer-showcase, Blackout, which was successful enough but a Britney album in name only, released to remind the general public that she was still a popstar and not just a tabloid favourite and tragic curiosity. The tracks on offer here don't stray too far from Blackout's blueprint, albeit lighter on the vocoder. There's also some moments of self-reflection, notably less aggressive production and some affected and occasionally self-penned lyrics (not that Mmm Papi tells much of a story other than illustrating that Brit's a bit of a horny lunatic). Also included are some pace-changing mid-tempos and two standard issue dire ballads (the flaccid Out From Under and the sickly sweet My Baby) but it's mainly just business as usual.

There's some fun, cheeky pop, If You Seek Amy and Mmm Papi, some beat-driven dance tracks like Circus and Kill the Lights and some quiet more restrained moments like Unusual You and Blur which feel more akin to 2004s In the Zone which as that album's title suggests, saw Britney taking more control. Tracks like these are refreshing; acknowledging in some small part, the cavalcade of controversy that's followed her in recent years rather than just glossing over it with faux sex kitten banality (though there's plenty of that to be found elsewhere on here.).

Deluxe edition bonus tracks are surprisingly worthwhile additions with Rock Me In feeling not unlike Rihanna's Shut up and Drive and Phonography having a Blackout-esque electro edge with a claustrophobic feel. There are also a handful of region and iTunes specific bonus tracks which are mostly no better than just serviceable but the Lady Gaga penned Quicksand stands out a little more. It begins as a simple piano ballad before layering an electro beat to create a fairly innocuous but pleasing mid-tempo (remember the days when Britney could sing songs about love gained and lost and it sounded genuine? Now that we know every micro-detail of her life the sentiment of such subject matters ring fairly hollow but, then again, no one really comes to a Britney album look for emotional resonance do they?)

Circus is no masterpiece, but it's fun, if a little superfluous and enjoyable, if a little familiar. But am I alone in finding it a little odd that a woman who was sectioned and deemed unfit to take care of her children is in the same year singing about joys Leather and Lace? With her dancing not as strong as it was, her vocals as thin and nasal as ever and her sound stalling slightly, it's becoming more and more obvious just how integral the concept of a circus is to Britney's success because at times one can't help but feel that it's only the chaos that surrounds her, in her music as well as her public persona, that keeps her afloat. As a one-woman show there'd be little to justify the price of admission.