Chugging from the get-go, ex-Go Go Jane Wiedlin finds her own path devouring pop attitudes spiked with sardonic mischief on her 2000 album Kissproof World.
Jangly opener Icicle thaws quickylu into prickly sensations of summer surf-pop scents. And is that the Trio Bulgarka's grand-kids I hear? Softer touch-down Feeling Like Flying permits am electric guitar to slide in between flashy break beats and Jane simply cools things into a mellow tale of caution. Good as it is, I do like my pop fizz a bit more shaken.
I was expecting something like Liz Phair's Fuck & Run for some reason, but the exclamatory Die Now! Pay Later! offers a quick chug nonetheless, soundtracking the everlasting youth of a dozen 90s teen drama titles sequences, and 'as seen on tv...played out...yeah!' fulfills what all good pop songs should exclaim.
Fallen wrestles with a thorny guitar dredge and lazy goth vibes. Title poof of pop Kissproof World is an illuminant shimmer wave, finite and hungry for a reaction: 'baby it's cold out there, people are ugly there' might just have clinched it for me. Pop-dream goes sour on The Good Wife and Jane knocks out yet another minute pop car crash of dystopian pleasure.
Jane's addiction to a killer hook kicks her kook into gear on Sooner Or Later, injecting some anthemic cynicism, emoting and sniping 'something that means nothing'. Jazz-hand piano keys chip away, with the message being sooner or later the facade will crumble, and the sensation from 'I will be your mirror' is onto a winner.
Delicious payback My Lovely Revenge has a chorus too fond of the snappy, word-winning and wound-nursisng verses to do any work but bask in shallowness, and I love it. Developed in concern for depletion, Drain might make more sense if Jane turns out to be a really big True Blood fan (my first experience of a pop song about draining a vein).
Minor but tuneful, Messy and Muse repeat their choruses in an endearing evasion of writing songs that are better, but who needs to when the skill of her writing is this gloriously unassuming. Finally we get the truth (not that I don't enjoy Jane's smirking pop dreaminess) - downbeat closer He's Not Talking is exhausted and fuzzy, with extinguishing synth and glistening keyboard vapours.
Sweet and sickly on the outside, prickly and heartfelt on the inside, Kissproof World might not have the commercial grease of her hey day, but her lilting vocal bite is as slick as a sachet of KY. Sooner Or Later is the hands-down keeper, and whilst the pure sensation of Rush Hour has burnt out, her hard driving pays off with the mischevious endevours of such ditties as The Good Wife and the stylistically-divorced He's Not Talking.
Not as good as the Backstreet Boys' The Call, but its grinding bassline and meet-me-halfway accommodation of misty synths and a ferocious chorus-punch all leave me bruised and asking for more. 'Don't waste your time' is just gloriously sulky, I love it. I am not too bitter about what has become of her de-Basers (more on that soon) and frankly Jenny Berggren has never sounded more empowered. Sometimes getting screwed by two guys at the same time brings out the best in us.
After her RNB ruin with 1995’s Now & Forever, and 2001’s half-encouraging Never Say Never never bothered to offer enough new stuff, Kim Wildefigures out a better way to make a solid album, sounding revitalized and blistering on Come Out & Play.Her intermittently ‘wasted’ 90s career sag feels inadvertently juxtaposed against indications of MILF lust at 50 and other life satisfactions and concerns rise to the surface with either visceral appetite or tender healing – to hear her sing in such a fleshed out manner is an elation.If I was harsh I would say there are plenty of bangs, just not all dynamite as the simmering production blends some of the tracks together a bit too effectively, but rest assured Kim throws her weight around and is back at the summit of what she does best.Hard and fast surfaces are in her sights, but steering further a field are more specialized treats that have long been divided into her albums throughout her career.
Fizzy cork-popping pop opener King of The World assumes her throne as Queen of the electro-stompers that have kept her family fed, garden green and gays from self-destruction throughout her 30 year longevity.A touching tribute to a late friend, Kim’s guilty guitar aggression is a hot flush of kinaesthesia reminiscent of Cyndi Lauper’s It’s Hard To Be Me.The surprise of such a killer chorus certainly boosts its significant charge.As it crumbles, the most beautiful cinematic flourish fades out and scatters the remains.
The electric strut of the discriminating Lights Down Low is an unequivocal career high, with Kim’s vocals piercing like lightning strikes.Exploiting her unique vocal infatuation and focus that made Never Trust A Stranger so fiercely erotic, surly and fuck-you, the chorus could extend to infinity.
Possibly the biggest surprise here, the emotional force onReal Love is the albums principal revelation.Emboldened by a dance-rock principle, its romantic air is on par with The Killers’Human.World-weary and stoic, armies have marched over this one, but at least she has a ‘story to tell’.Kim’s been favouring these slushy ripples for years (check out her post-Close albums tracks for evidence), but nothing was ever this melodic, elegant and lush.Dance orientated and liberated.
The atmospheric jungle of Greatest Journey could be the closest she has ever come to replicating the dismal perfection of Cambodia.Kim is on fine, appalled-sounding form alongside the claustrophobic studio escapism, but I don’t like the invasion of Glenn Gregory’s vocals – it seems Kim will do anything to make sure she gets a toilet break whilst on stage.
Even at 50 it is never too late to be a spoilt brat, but I Want What I Want is loud and cunning. Splintering guitar glamour clamours the senses and a firm bass elevates it from being simply a slice of mindlessly bouncy Buffy soundtrack bopper fodder, but it’s a narrow escape.
Sludgy life-learner Love Conquers All is a squeaky-clean synthesised ballad.Whatever happened to the luxuriant gloom of Can You Hear It and Someday?Kim is capable of better.This is complacent by comparison, and a bit of a soggy tampon left out in the rain.On the plus side, it has a faintly chilly stargazing ambience to it – nicer than I make out actually.
Investing from the same rugged guitar sleaze of Personal Jesus by Depeche Mode (she is a fan after all), and evoking Marilyn Manson’s ‘hey you, what do you say’ mantra from his song Beautiful People, her own cut-price Hey You has a tough adventure finding its own appeal.Jamelia got there first and did it better - sadly this song borrows all its credit from elsewhere, but expensive sounds are always a solid match for her.
Hopefully not the career,the thrilling-spree ofSuicide is erratic with erotic chaos.A fine stompy romp, singing like there is a bad taste in her mouth brings out the not that bad in her.Admittedly mannered, it’s still entrancing.
Tripping over the same beats as Katrina and The Waves (well almost – go with me on it), the frenzied zip monster This Paranoia concerns itself with a slick licking of cute hooks (the rhyme is ‘what’s in doing for ya?’), frenetic posturing, strident production and seductive terrace chanting.
Sadly not a BT cover, gothic affliction gets serious on Loving You More, whoring out her piano player and aided by hovering synth flapping whilst fondly scowling on the subject of her ‘darkest days’ – the song is obviously about getting her roots done. I am only disappointed at how heavy this track becomes given how intriguing the initial warm strumming sounds are, with just an acoustic guitar, which threaten to bring out a different shade to the techno tints elsewhere.
Returning to her other roots, the sharp and slinky pop incision Get Out gets plenty with a full-facial of face-pulling deliverance.Cut clean from the blubber, this is juicier and full of optimistic affront.Her vocals sting sharp enough on the chorus to make even serial-syringer Kylie raise her non-raised left eyebrow; basically Kim is causing a big stink about getting a guy out of her bed ASAP (what would her kids think, etc).
Stunning us with an uncharacteristically guitar-driven surge of electricity, pop-ska sky-rocket My Wish Is Your Command is a more than functioning rock-spiked frolic and its blistering accusation is undeniable.Waltzing closer Jessica is almost unexplainably (even there) brilliant.Soft, sultry and whimsical, Kim has rarely sounded so spontaneous – there will be no excuse for not performing such a rare-sounding song on tour that only lasts 90 seconds.
Heavy on guitar and fizzy synthesizers, Come Out & Play is her most viscerally engaged album since 1987’s career peak Close.With a re-charged relish for the raunchy and raucous, highlights include the kinesthetic testimony of King of The World, the salaciously blinding bait-biter Lights Down Low, getting revelatory to the glistening rhythm on Real Life, the Goth-tinged noise of This Paranoia and Jessica wherein Kim conclusively proves she can still proffer a deft array of surprises.Thriving in the fast lane throughout much on offer makes the experience a little blurry in places, but this is quickly remedied with isolated selection and recurrent listening – just a few scarcely avoid crashing into faceless territory, but Kim’s sharp pursuit is as unwavering as ever.It is so good it’s hard to imagine it not being everyone’s favorite new Kim Wilde album – there is not one rotten song on this.
You would never know this one had a song called Breathe once upon a time, performing her new single in America was a tough exercise for face-lift addict Kylie Minogue, whose pressence is admittedly magnificent here but she falls short of oxygen, whilst barely standing on her own two feet for any duration, and can't manage one full chorus without sounding like nails are being hammered into one's ears. Seriously, I just love this song and there are not many even half as good on that album where each are seemingly botoxed into the same tired expressions over and over again.
Thick-voiced Hi-NRG siren Samantha Gilles gets going on just about every track on her 1996 disco package Destiny, narrowly topping Gloria Estefan to the crown for the Best Album Called Destiny award of 1996. Hardcore italo-house beats swing left right and centre, with more meat than an NBA locker room, and thankfully SG is more than ccommitted to dealing with the crippling rave exotica, which is a tremendous up given that this frantic set of happy-slappers bounce off the ceiling with an almighty flush of flashy adrenaline.
As far as dancefloor demands go, the rampant and randy Come To My Bedroom is diva grandeur incarnate, a hard and fast Hi-NRG gauntlet that I don’t see many guys getting past. Going full speed, she uses the classic line about ‘the bed is so soft’, with ‘special surprise’ (girlfriend, how big is it?) to show to her special man, whom she gushes ‘is just the right size’. The dark menace of it all could frighten bats out of their cave, but the flashy sheen enabling the vast rapidity is just as asphyxiating with a sizeable rush of stimulation.
Above: Samantha's mystery lover races over to her soft play pen.
Barmy-but-thrilling disco frenzy How Many Lies keeps things composed with wrist-slashing beats, guitar growling, glitzy synths, thundery thuds, and jittery ping-ball speed sounds that are flashier than Dannii flashing her pits at the local lesbian bar. Sam’s inflamed incredulity thankfully can't quite quash her capacity for raw ecstasy, which many listeners might need to be on to experience her full benefits.
‘Feminine friendship love’ is apparently what ‘you boy’ have been waiting for. Clearly this fag hag doesn’t get why those boys in her audience are dancing with each other. And wearing spandex. ‘Feminine friendship‘ sounds like a brand of tampons. Friendship Love, the track, sounds like a tranny having a stroke in full slap. ‘You are a he-she, that is okay with me’ might be the penny dropping after all.
Theatrical settings illuminate See The Light , an appealing appeal for her man to see her as more than just ‘a sex machine’. Her beaming vocals are hard to argue with, and the moment she repeats her chorus second time around it’s hard not to be converted to her simple-minded charms. With its constant pulse of pounding NRG, a soothing hook relieves the otherwise scary Sinitta-like fashion of riper than ripe pop nutrition – the brute force of the beats almost makes me feel like a rape victim.
Just as epic, the exhilarating Do You Believe Me is a murky swamp of sleaze and dark rave ridges juxtaposed with rippling jubilation: choice lyric ‘guaranteed to give it up’ is destiny fulfilled. The title track threatens breathing space with plaintive piano keys treacling down before her Hi-NRG nerves get the better of her with a flustered hail-storm of strident disco mayhem.
Uber embarrassing Ding Dong Darling is a startling bubblegum stir-fry of simmering synth sounds whisked up into something that would have gave Scooch the skids. The simplest of melodies to discern, a bit of a classic in the genre for ravers who watch a lot of early morning kids TV, but I’ll pass. Bye Bye Baby’s gulping-disco thuds are only less rinse-able than its panting and passive chorus. Sadly I haven’t been able to hear the rest of this skidmark of hardcore 90s Hi-NRG Italo-house dance music, but the high speeds of my highlights have set an impressive standard that I’m truly in awe of.
With bulging beats so invasive they could give you a yeast infection, the surprisingly glossy opus Destiny is such a joyous release. With its intensely claustrophobic dancefloor determination being hard to take in one sitting; it improves immensely with repeated poundings, not least due to Sam’s sturdy vocal stamina in full control of the disco Bunsen burner ferocity. She scores high on the explosive and darkly deranged gush-fest Come To My Bedroom, the transgender-friendly Friendship Love, giving her man the snip on the How Many Lies, the Sinitta-esque See The Light, and the exhaustive euphoria of Do You Believe Me. The beats are LOUD and don’t take ‘no’ for an answer, so be prepared to have your ears and dignity ravaged.
With K-Lo’s resurrection as bleached bombshell Lola Leethal causing shockwaves through the internet, sales in actual Shockwaves hair products have apparently went through the roof as young gays with gender issues have all shoplifted the styling range in an effort to get the Lola look.Meanwhile, the Freak Asylum siren has been avoiding the temptation of a recent Boots 2-for-1 deal on St. Tropez by flying out to Ibiza and Majorca to complete a hat-rick of promotional gigs in the space of 24 hours.K-Lo’s lack of effort is starting to worry me – could she not have fitted in a house call to the Obama’s?
Whilst we wait for more news, Diva Incarnate can exclusively reveal the names of 8, of a possible 13, album tracks:
FETISH
This is bound to be a flavorsome, just what kinks have these guys got to share with us?
YOU BETTER LEAVE - TOBY GAD WRITTEN SONG
Something tells me Lola isn’t about to get her ballad on with this one.
SOMETHING TO SAY
I really hope at least one of these tracks has the lyrics ‘laugh out loud’ as a reference to her fabulous and LOLtastic blog interviews.
YOU GOTTA LOVE ME
Dreamgirls meets Lola Leethal?
CONTAGIOUS - Peter Hook on Bass
Could Lola be about to dish the dirt on her recent Ibiza experiences with a song about STD’s?I certainly hope so.
Below: Kelly eggs on the gays at Doncaster Pride before petling a few lesbians with actual eggs who were giving her funny looks throughout her set.
THATS WHAT I HATE ABOUT YOU - Peter Hook on Bass
I love a good twisted lyric, and it’s about time we got something scornful from Kelly.With Peter Hook on bass there is almost guaranteed to be a euphoric trip tinged with pathos as with all the best New Order cuts.
WASTED
This could be my anthem of 2010 - hopefully this will a purge of all the tragic and fantastic acts we all shamefully commit whilst, yes, wasted.
Whether you can travel or ‘accom’ has just been settled if sophisticated trash veteran Verana has anything to groan about it.Released in 2007, bubblegum trash landmark album Come In My Bed is a bold and deeply impersonal set of exhibitional sexual mission statements.Her skilled and airtight vocals barely survive a clusterfuck of bubblegum-esque Eurodance poundings, with scarcely enough time to breathe, but the singer hangs on in there like a pro, with each beat ploughing deeper than some NBA basketball players.Eurodance jams ribbed for your pleasure, this silicone sex siren blows harder for her ‘art’ than a cheerleader stuck in a corner.
See The Stars In The Sky establishes who’s lying on their back whilst taking no precaution with a taste for throbbing dance beats.Broadening her horizons on All Around The Globe, I’m sure her legs have done just that.Having a crack at subtlety, Baby Come In My Bedwon’t leave anyone short-changed, especially not her regulars. The sticky ingredients chafe together with a sleazy abandon I have not enjoyed since Dannii’s Vibe On thrills.
Name checking her boobs, Big Fun isa spirited cover of the Inner City classic.Yet another free entry invitation, Join Me To My Wonderlandbounces along like a near-the-end Vengaboys album track.More infectious than sex-roulette in Africa, but less offensive than finding that funny, Chico Boy is an unassuming bubblegum winner.
Let Us Dance In The Sunis probably Latin foreplay, who knew Verena’s vernacular for sordid chat up lines could be so innocent.Coming second to Girls Aloud’s similar lyric from Something Kinda Ooooh might embarrass lesser tramps, but My Toot Toot puts Out of Control to shame.Laying herself bare has never been a problem, and You Are Everythingwipes her feelings off her chest. Obviously a possibility, Sex Me Up is like getting desperate when the club’s already closed and the taxi rank is shrinking by the second, Verena simply ups her strategy with a formula that is more than her headboard.
Whether it’s camp cramp or minge cringe, Verana’s classy crusade for cock is delightfully trashy, embarrassing and the very definition of acquired taste.High class trash at its cheapest, tackiest and most unconcerned - Come In My Bed is more ejaculatory than Ashley Cole shooting a Nokia mobile phone commercial.
Connecting to a pulse of rippling disco, Stacey Q casually asserts her gameplan with tame warnings of ‘double illusions’ and promises we’re not to worry.The original Annie (but actually in a good way), Ms. Q is anything but pretentious.Color Me Cinnamon is spliced with various tempos and illuminating temperatures of dance, trance, jazz, rock and pop.
First single Trip is a throbbing dancefloor invasion.Her lucid ‘crusade’ gets going straight away with a recurring flare up of rave and dizzying trance. Her ice-cool delivery drips like a tap and you won’t even notice there’s not a proper chorus.
Catching fire with rougher surfaces, ‘we burn’ is the fang-injecting chorus on Below The Surface – if her bush is on fire then I’d probably suggest getting a Brazilian.No pain no gain, etc.It’s the album’s most emphatic chorus, singing with tooth-pic precision, and it catches friction like striking a match.She even sneaks in a neat Britney Spears reference, whether intended or not – it’s a nod to pop perfection and she’s on a winner here to get away with it.
Safer bet, the second single Pandora’s Box has softer edges to its creamy pop treacle.A fervent bassline is given added voltage with the spikier chorus.
The distracted electronica sounds of Masquerade are melancholic and the slightly bothered chorus is built around a foundation of gleaming piano keys streaming through the verses.Sighing backing vocals contemplate wordless sensations and cloudy disco rhythms sound the alarm for heartfelt pleas from Q.
Synths are fried to a citrus crisp on Candy Apple, with her hardened vocal edges giving added bite.The track announces itself in euphoric fluster, and Stacey’s glossy vocal application adds a new layer with every listen.
The misty ambience of the sleepy Euphoria can’t promote itself beyond the unconvincing desire to ‘take me higher’, but at least she’s ‘giving it a shot’.
Below: Stacey poses with her new gay husband with no visible embarassment at all.
By far my favourite, the swanky Behind The Eight Ball’s jangly guitars slide right in and it’s a surprise that the line isn’t lifted directly from Sinead O’Connor’s Mandinka.The cutesy chorus is as neck-snapping as it is name-dropping.
Arctic ska sounds fizz and hiss on Lion’s Den, but sadly the chorus is held in captivity by a lack of ideas, which is a bit of a let down given how very The Knife meets S.O.A.P it initially promises.Forgiving the flat chorus, the production is sharp, jagged and worthy of being held in the same breath of Robyn’s Who’s That Girl, but regular Diva Incarnate readers might note that coming from me that might not actually seem like a compliment.
Getting it so wrong, Going Goth is like Kylie trying to rip off Dannii’s Get Into You.Foul and as appealing as herpes.Despite wishing she was singing ‘I’m not unknown’, Voices In My Head is a pulsating dancefloor throb with surface-skimming trance worthy of Dana International’s epic trance album HaHalom HaEfshari (yes, you know the one). Cinammon Girl is a tranquil spritz of simmering trance particles, elegant beats and Stacey’s silky vapours.The low-key verses are as sultry as they can be, and sound just like the bridge on Shania Twain’s When. Where I Am goes all Chic a la Notorious and You Are Beautiful.All fizz and no jizz.That is not to say this is not worth a casual agreement to go back to its cheap thrills, but there are better options on offer here. The Saint Etienne sulk of Sad Café is not without custom, ‘she dreams in metaphors’ is gorgeously pompous and its mild flutter of trance almost turns it into a Madonna Celebration style Ibiza anthem.
Color Me Cinnamon is as flavoursome as pop is ever going to get, these songs don’t beg you to like them and this freedom of sound gives the album a uniquely rewarding advantage.As on Behind The Eightball, Trip, Below The Surface and Candy Apple, Stacey Q’s incisive vocals inject with clean pursuit, with the production bite to match her inimitable sparkle.
Thankfully not about taking a dump on the dancefloor, work-shy producers Love To Infinity hooked up with Carina Lirola to unleash the very hygienic club banger When The Beat Drops together as Ezcapade.
Any dance diva game for wearing only a leotard with heels gets instant attention for pure pop trash potential alone (the look is very ‘find me a construction site to walk past’ and I only say that because I’m jealous of course), that’s just a fact, but these dance dealers are far more far-reaching than that, innit, as they shamelessly stampede over the sound of Cascada’s Evacuate The Dancefloor formula, with an avalanche of fizzy synths and glamorous guitar sounds that bristle with a violence like a beard of fragmented glass.
Taking some its juice from Cascada is no bad thing – these guys merely fuse the aesthetic to their own southward agenda, not to mention it sounds infinitely more classy. The track explodes with an addictive rash of revved up rave noises, and the video more than lives up to the visceral sensations of the sounds.As always, show me a 12” and I am in heaven, and possibly a wheelchair afterwards with an ice-pack - who doesn't like a good disco pounding?
Above & Below: think Myra Hindley meets Street Fighter - Lola Leethal kills it only on the dancefloor!
Kelly Llorenna's management team (no, she doesn't work for Greggs before you even ask) have very generously given Diva Incarnate the world exclusive premier of Freak Asylum's very first official promotional images to help launch their exciting new project. The pics are very film noir, with Lola Leethal's lurid blonde hair extensions being remincent of the film The Lady From Shanghai. K-Lo is currently due to go 'mad for it' on Wednesday night in Ibiza on the Clubland tour, and will strut her stuff for Doncaster and Bristol Pride, before finally going back for more Clubland action in Majorca for the Sunday. What a lazy cow.
Chugging from the get-go, ex-Go Go Jane Wiedlin finds her own path devouring pop attitudes spiked with sardonic mischief on her 2000 album Kissproof World.
Jangly opener Icicle thaws quickylu into prickly sensations of summer surf-pop scents. And is that the Trio Bulgarka's grand-kids I hear? Softer touch-down Feeling Like Flying permits am electric guitar to slide in between flashy break beats and Jane simply cools things into a mellow tale of caution. Good as it is, I do like my pop fizz a bit more shaken.
I was expecting something like Liz Phair's Fuck & Run for some reason, but the exclamatory Die Now! Pay Later! offers a quick chug nonetheless, soundtracking the everlasting youth of a dozen 90s teen drama titles sequences, and 'as seen on tv...played out...yeah!' fulfills what all good pop songs should exclaim.
Fallen wrestles with a thorny guitar dredge and lazy goth vibes. Title poof of pop Kissproof World is an illuminant shimmer wave, finite and hungry for a reaction: 'baby it's cold out there, people are ugly there' might just have clinched it for me. Pop-dream goes sour on The Good Wife and Jane knocks out yet another minute pop car crash of dystopian pleasure.
Jane's addiction to a killer hook kicks her kook into gear on Sooner Or Later, injecting some anthemic cynicism, emoting and sniping 'something that means nothing'. Jazz-hand piano keys chip away, with the message being sooner or later the facade will crumble, and the sensation from 'I will be your mirror' is onto a winner.
Delicious payback My Lovely Revenge has a chorus too fond of the snappy, word-winning and wound-nursisng verses to do any work but bask in shallowness, and I love it. Developed in concern for depletion, Drain might make more sense if Jane turns out to be a really big True Blood fan (my first experience of a pop song about draining a vein).
Minor but tuneful, Messy and Muse repeat their choruses in an endearing evasion of writing songs that are better, but who needs to when the skill of her writing is this gloriously unassuming. Finally we get the truth (not that I don't enjoy Jane's smirking pop dreaminess) - downbeat closer He's Not Talking is exhausted and fuzzy, with extinguishing synth and glistening keyboard vapours.
Sweet and sickly on the outside, prickly and heartfelt on the inside, Kissproof World might not have the commercial grease of her hey day, but her lilting vocal bite is as slick as a sachet of KY. Sooner Or Later is the hands-down keeper, and whilst the pure sensation of Rush Hour has burnt out, her hard driving pays off with the mischevious endevours of such ditties as The Good Wife and the stylistically-divorced He's Not Talking.
