The unique otherness of Dannii's disorganised, daft disco delirium reinvents the genre of what people who speak English call "dance". Her one woman show... an amusing disorder, dispatching like a mysterious religion, consistently outperforms Kylie on mythical merits alone. Her strict diet of laziness hovers over the whole project, with a nimble appetite for original material making sure there is no way in hell she'd ever lower herself by having a hit album or, hold the stomach tight, a number 1 single anywhere but in Japan or made-up club charts that don't even exist. Dannii will not be broken, ever - and that's just her forehead.
However, she will allow herself to be tampered with, as on her feel-good opening opus 'Touche Eclat' Me Like That, which marks her territory distinctly with a vivid pounding from Jason Nevins. An excited Dannii only then wasted all her energy by ripping the staples out of Joan Collins' scalp in order to steal the former Dynasty stars favourite wig, and subsequently had no enery left to move in the video; instead the mega buzz generated from auditioning gay-for-pay dyke dancers stunned her into full collapse when a squeeling D finally couldn't take anymore pain of standing up and breathing at the same time. (8.5/10)
She regains her conciousness with the sinewy aspartame injection Feel Like I Do, which glints with unassuming menace and quite possibly is overrated, but I love the chaffing bassline rubbing Dannii's thighs red raw - it has a razorblade sharpness to it more lethal than any shaken-Pepsi-can explosion of Perfection or YWFAM's sedated sunkissed seduction (is Sunny D sing it whilst snorkling in the shallow end, of her bath?). It glows with a radioactive irritability to stay still and erodes all the fake-tan sheen of her AATW associations. Dance is clearly Dan's secret outlet for her same-sex cravings, "it's my only way to lesbo" seeps a torturing agony to relieve herself on a sticky dancefloor. (10/10, 7.5/10, 8/10)
Equally messy, Perfection is more spreadable than Dannii in a dyke bar enquiring about a sling, and is as much a guilty pleasure as pulling back for the full facial - if Dannii runs out of SPF for her baps and forehead she knows what to do. The trashtastic grimness of being a Dannii fan took a new dive into swirling currents of glazed abandon. (7.5/10)
Meanwhile, when grief and lust collide and curdle, the tight and disciplined So Under Pressure spurts sisterly sympathy as Dannii hisses and groans in order to show a bloated and bald Kylie how much she wants a hit single. Taking her older-and-plump siblings bullimia into consideration (D just doesn't have the stomach for it), she can't resist taking a non-botox jab: "I'm sorry you couldn't keep lunch down ... You know I can't be there whenever you want me to" and refuses to clean up the mess, literally, leaving Special K with a toilet bowl crusted with dry vomit. She then pays the price when Kylie gaffatapes her in the boot of her 4X4 - "mmm, ooh, mmm, mmm" breathes Danoushka through her flared nostrils as I'm Sorry coos with the elegance of a cow being slaughtered. (8/10, 10/10)
Still high on the idea of risk, Love Fight is the clubcentric flare-up I've been waiting for, etc, wherein she gives her wimpering frayed clit a rest and wants a black eye instead. The gas-bubble intro teeters like blowing into a glass of milk using a straw, and an inexplicable standstill, better saved for a video edit, both disqualify her affirmingly life-threatning quest for sexual climax via a clenched fist. When Dannii roars "on the floor!" a lesbian stampede marches all over the poor bint. (8/10)
After her near-death experience, I Will Come To You is the sound of Ms. D waking up in a strange hotel while ants devour her love cake. The global sunbathing epidemic of Danniigoose let's loose on the ubiquitous plight of global warming and her own concious negation of family life and career on 'Round The Pool. Both are tangible strands of where she could have travelled to musically with a bona fide studio album. Club Disco is the spit trying to compensate for lube, the split ends to her usual and expected full gloss sheen, but has enough momentum to excell allow entry when it matters. (7.5/10, 7.5/10)
Redeeming her "free access" excesses, the oozing tranquility of Do You Believe Me Now has the tenderness of excess botox trickling down Dannii's football tight forehead after a painful session from her "doctor" (goes by the name of Nathan apparantly). Her endurance obviously reminds her what is important in life and sings obediently to suggest she must really love this lesbian kiss-n-tell stripper she's leaving a voicemail to. (9/10)
Perhaps the only dance song about having a colonic, the disco coma Gone unravels inertly, coasting on a faux-Moroder bassline and only tightens up for a focused acceleration on the brief middle-8. Her shrill testimony retreats into herself, but she does claim she's very hands on supposedly anyway. (6/10)
The best parts of Club Disco reinvent her ravaged genre, and forcefully introduce some of the old zest back into her bloodstream, with her fundemental principle of "vagina and a disco beat" completing a compendium of her elevatary dance achievements. Her chaotic and unruly attitude towards her career coherently consists of unconnected raw elements - a decorative chain of tacky mash-ups, puppy-fat dance boppers, scalpel carved electro eroders, all hang between 6 month release gaps and fan-droid anguish for more. It's just good to have her functioning!
Album highlight: "On the floor!" as Dannii sentences herself to death via a lesbian stampede.
(10/10, "I know it's all my fault" - Dannii Minogue)
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