Tuesday, 22 March 2011

Britney Spears - Femme Fatale (2011)

If pussy's could talk... pop star pantheon Briney's air-tight tunes almost have as much thrush as her love blender, only with less of a mess presumably. And less guilt for enjoying them. Wiping both her pussy and her slate clean (or as good as), Femme Fatale painfully oozes with all the right and wrong mixtures of dance/trance lubrication and cock-hungry infections.

Sounding like the most un-erotic generic club skank of all time, Britney seemingly sings from her sling: probably something about having great tits and an ass that can take things to the next level baby; and needless to say Till The World Ends is her best single since any-cock-will-do gangbang anthem Gimme More in 2007. Sulky verses, and a chant-heavy chorus number 1 and classic hopeful-escape chorus number 2 that lingers like bad breath is bound to be all over TV and radio this summer long after it's out the charts. A song that's destined to ignite clubs and stadiums. In Croatia (no diss to Croations, apart from the homophobic ones naturally). A triumph of foreign relations - Britney's already booked her Ryan Air flights to Japan so her magic vadge can soak up the floods.

Even choppier, the relentlessly thumping sexual warfare of Hold It Against Me isn't quite as sleazy and disgusting as it wants to be, but Brit's melancholic treacle seaps through a wreckage of electronic sounds: the chainsaw bass reverberates violently, crashing momentum, and those moments (are they the chorus? are they the bridge? is she awake?) that make you see stars. In spite of, well, everything, its pugnacious and plaintive hooks are sturdy, and chunkier than her between-albums thighs, and chaffe with equal pain, ridicule and menace. This song goes hard - watch her athletic marching on the spot in the video for proof.

The original snippet was a lot to get excited about, but Inside Out (and I'm sure she can) sounds rather sluggish when stretched out into a full song. It's so slow she might even be able to dance a little to it on tour. What a disgusting party trick she has - considering we've all seen it, boasting about turning her penis-pouch inside out is pretty tasteless, and I certainly won't be eating gammon slices again anytime soon.

Firing up her blow-up doll coo, I Wanna Go itches her rash for boisterous boys, clubcentric poundings, as well as some innocent cock-crazed fun whilst the Kids are with Kevin. Complete with the best wistles on a dance track since Bob Siclair, Britney's got enough encouragement during her sarcastic "shame on me" to sell this with brainless perfection. I hope this one will be a single. Rihanna will be sweating under her weave when she hears this.

When How I Roll starts it sounds like we're hearing Britney getting wheelbarrowed again by one of her black music producers. Nintendo-lite bleeps and bloops are adorably cutesy in their mimesis of Britney's intense maturity, whilst "get down where my pussy's at" is what posse is meant to sound like presumably - that's how she rolls her flaps back inside her underwear by the sounds of it (don't think you're above such commentary: we've all seen the pictures of her crotch-kebab looking like an untreated axe wound).

Written almost as if it were a responce to Justin's risky sex jam anthem BareBack, in terms of structure Drop Dead Beautiful functions like a killer Blackout bonus track (think of the simple-but-effective Get Back). The territorial dancefloor energy insures repetitious sexual commotion along the lines of calling someone goodlooking at gunpoint. Her KFC drive-thru protocal is just as rude.

Talking bollocks, Big Fat Bass is a load of shit. Seal It With A Kiss is listenably generic. Gasoline is an example of style over substance abuse - it's so bad she'll lose her kids if authorities hear it.

Trying hard to be Kelis, Trouble For Me is utter shit.

Lacking an Everytime, When We Kiss, Heaven On Earth, Unusual You or Trouble, I guess Criminal is all we're getting. I'm not feeling it: this surly sod sounds more like a functional drink driver than an irresistable rapist.

Trancetastic Trip Your Heart is awesome enough to be the best Ian Van Dhal song ever! Just a dream. It's the nearest token Britney pilled-up-to-her-eyeballs shoegazer we are going to get here - hence why it's the best song of the lot. Swoon-inducing synths.

Amid the din and gore of Britney's attempts to turn her vagina inside out in order to stay relevent with the kids, there's a lot of junk in the trunk, and yet Femme Fatale is impressively coherent and puts most of her back catalogue to shame. Not a patch on the seminal Blackout, it's at least an improvement on the jeuvenile Circus tricks. She might be boring as hell, but s&m-ing and cock-craving on top of shiny, obligatory over-to-you-Rihanna club bangers kinda suits her.


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