Our take on pop star's ninth album.
If there's one moment that sums up the fantastic new Britney Spears album – Glory, she calls it—it's "Clumsy," which dropped as a teaser single a few weeks ago. It's a minimal electro-throb from Pop & Oak's Warren Felder (with Alex Nice and Mischke), lavished with digital hand-claps and Britney's robot-perv moans. The tension builds until Britney gulps "ooops!" and a wall of in-the-red synth fuzz slams down – the noise a needy party girl hears in her head when she suddenly realises she's felt too much, asked for too much, been too much. But she jumps forward into the beat, dancing one step ahead of that noise with all her too-muchness intact, chasing those handclaps to the next party. A perfect Britney song, done and dusted in three minutes. Ooops, she did it again.
Glory is a welcome comeback for a true pop visionary nobody expected to stick around long enough for a third album, much less a ninth. Has any star pulled off as many comebacks as Britney? For this girl it's the non-comeback records that are the exception, because people have kept foolishly trying to write her off since the TRL days. Nearly 20 years after "Baby One More Time," people still act shocked when Brit refuses to fade away like the disposable pop trinket they desperately hoped she'd be, which keeps raising the question of how many great hits she needs to score before she finally gets credit as one of the all-time brilliant hitmakers. Every time she jumps back in the game, the world gives her that look like Kim Cattrall in the Crossroads scene where Britney shows up on her doorstep claiming to be her daughter. (Surpriiise!) But she's still going because nobody else can do what she does. No singer has ever captured the needy party-girl blues like Britney.
Last time, on 2013's Britney Jean, our girl was way outside her comfort zone musically, and the strain showed, as she focused on morose break-up ballads, not exactly her forte. Britney Jean had high peaks (the Bowie space chill of "Alien," the sisterly Jamie Lynn duet "Chillin' With You") but it was her mopiest album – and not coincidentally, her weakest seller ever. So: Message received. On Glory she goes back to the fizzy electro-stomp mode she does best. Even when she transforms herself into a human mirror ball, glitzed out and blitzed out, her supposedly anonymous voice is a sonic signature any pop fan can recognise in seconds. There's no other sound quite like that droid-soul glitch-twang in Britney's voice – think "Toxic," "Lucky," "Piece of Me" – speaking to the bored, frustrated, ready-to-explode disaster queen in all of us.
It reaches the creative heights of her It's Britney Bitch Trilogy of Blackout, Circus and Femme Fatale, where she cranked up the disco dreams of her pythonic youth into an abrasive synth-squeal party-mom sound with an extremist electro agenda that proved hugely influential. When she dropped Blackout in 2007, the music industry scoffed, but then proceeded to spend the next few years imitating it to death, to the point where everything on pop radio sounded like Blackout. Femme Fatale, from five years ago, was her best album-qua-album ever, with the obsessive electro-burbles of "I Wanna Go" and "How I Roll." But Glory outdoes those records in terms of vivacious humor – whoever designed the latest-model Britney Having Fun Simulator did a damn fine job. She hasn't played around with her vocals so cleverly since the "Toxic" days – she even ends the deluxe edition with "Coupure Electrique," which proves she can sing an entire song in French and still sound exactly like Britney.
The sound of Selena Gomez's instant-classic 2015 pop manifesto Revival is all over this album, in gems like "Invitation" – a nervous girl whisper amplified at the center of all the production, until every quivery hiccup feels like a dramatic confession. (Since Gomez's "Hands to Myself" and "Same Old Love" came on like the craftiest Britney tunes in years, it makes perfect sense for Brit to build on them.) "Invitation" extends the come-on of her Britflix-and-chill single "Do You Wanna Come Over?" as she explores some mild kink ("I know it might sound crazy but I'm-a put you in this blindfold/I need you to trust me"). There's also a taste of Justin Bieber's acoustic-techno guitar flourishes in tunes such as "Just Like Me" and "Just Luv Me" along with the faux-Ariana moves of "What You Need."
"Man in the Moon", like Britney Jean's "Alien," accentuates Britney's little-noted but intriguing affinities with David Bowie, another blonde who fell to earth. Britney pines over an astro-boy who's left the planet with her heart ("Send my message into outer space/Wonder if it's gonna float your way") and sobs, "Houston, I know there's a problem." The melody evokes Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah," which just makes the whole song more strangely moving. And since every Britney album needs at least one truly terrible song (that's part of her brand) there's the Gwen Stefani imitation "Love Me Down," and wow – may the words "Britney" and "ska" never appear in the same sentence again.
Britney's closing in on 35 now – the age when Elvis sang "Suspicious Minds" and Madonna sang "This Used To Be My Playground," an age when pop visionaries often look back and take stock and wonder how the hell they got here. She does that on Glory, but naturally in her own distinctive way. So the conceptual centrepiece is the deceptively giddy "Private Show," which isn't quite the stripper-in-a-stupor lapdance goof it pretends to be. She pleads for a "Private Show," begging her lover to "pull my curtains until they close," but it nails the paradox at the heart of Brit-dom – for Miss American Dream Since She Was 17, she has no idea what it's like to luxuriate in any kind of private show. The essence of the Britney Dilemma is we'll never know what's behind her curtains, because they never close – ever since her Disney days when she was a tween singing "If I Could Turn Back Time" on the Mickey Mouse Club, she's been in the spotlight. Even in "Private Show," when she thinks she and her lover might be stealing a moment to themselves, sharing a moment of unmediated emotion, she notices there's a crowd watching. So she shrugs it off: "Guess that's the end. Can we go again—do it all again? Nah, I'll take a bow." (And is Private Show also the name of her new signature fragrance? Of course it is.) Go ahead and take that bow, Britney – you earned it.
Topics: Britney Spears
Songwriter proves ready for her spotlight moment.
While an eight-year veteran of the bedroom-to-Bandcamp scene, Universe marks Jess Locke's second coming, as the singer-songwriter's honest, TMI-bordering diary scribbles are beaten into bite-size slogans by a full-band backing. As expected, the fidelity boost comes at the sacrifice of some of Locke's heart-wrenching fragility, but not her poetic punches, which hit hard whether taking on self-worth, the pros of self-medication or unflinching self-analysis. Sense a common thread? Thankfully, despite sharing the spotlight, Locke remains the centre of her own universe, the perfect place for her blunt vulnerability to thrive.
Amiable countrified album for former X Factor runner up.
Originally sold as a generic-brand rock & roll bad boy balladeer, Dean Ray has ditched the saccharine bullshit and crafted a record that takes mid-20s existential worry and uses it as fuel for mature, beguiling country-folk tunes. At times coming off like a bluegrass Jeff Buckley with plenty of banjo and brushes ("Green"), and a world-weary Ian Moss acolyte ("Call It a Day"), Ray delivers a set that's steeped in Australiana and affecting story-telling, like the confessional tales of "Alcohol" and "Six Feet Under". The down-on-his-luck outlaw rocker motif isn't new, but Ray's talent turns it upside down with terrific verve.
More arresting and confessional indie rock from Nashville band.
Alicia Bognanno doesn't mince words. "I cut my hair, I feel the same, masturbate, I feel the same," she howls on the album opener. Bully play the kind of wiry, slightly out-of-control indie rock Pavement and Superchunk pioneered in the Nineties. They move from inspired to imitative on "Guess There", and the see-sawing guitar and throbbing bass of "Seeing It" shows their debt to the Pixies is ongoing. Still, with a singer as arresting and confessional as Bognanno, the songs demand attention. When she shreds her throat with lines such as "I've been staying away from the west side, trying to keep away from the booze and you", she sounds brave, not broken.
Sydney folkie returns with more apple-pie optimism on LP five.
Fans of Lenka won't be jolted by a sudden change of sound after 2015 album The Bright Side. She's produced Attune herself and it's a more stripped back record, largely acoustic and organic in keeping with the subject matter. The title is a reminder to all of us, Lenka included, to reconnect with the natural world. But the songs are as winsome as ever, and while Lenka's rosy outlook often rings twee, you have to admire her ability to make even dying sound cute, as in afterlife ballad "Disappear". The Sally Seltmann co-write "Heal" is the strongest track on an album with simple charms that are both quaint and refreshing.
Psychedelic plot continues to swirl for guitar cosmonauts.
There's less to prove and more room to breathe on the second album of the Church's new era: a 10-song doddle after the monolith of 2014's Further/Deeper. But between the shifting keys and ecstatic dream-state chorus of "Another Century" and the filmic apocalypse of "Dark Waltz" is an eminently familiar envelope of sonic architecture. Guitarists Peter Koppes and Ian Haug weave a seamless continuum in the synthy wash of "Submarine", then jangle and chime blissfully nostalgic through "In Your Fog". From ocean to desert, Steve Kilbey's astral visions wax reliably majestic and mercurial. Did you want peyote with that?
The pop star shows off her brassy firepower.
Demi Lovato is at her pop-princess best when her majestic wail takes over, as the high points of the singer's sixth album attest. The title track channels the brassy clamour of her 2015 smash "Confident" into maximum-overdrive R&B; "Sexy Dirty Love" throws back to the robo-funk era, with Lovato using its fluid bass line as a springboard for vocal pyrotechnics. The LP gets bogged down in chilled-out trap pop (see the Lil Wayne-assisted "Lonely"). But slow jams like "Concentrate" perfectly balance the downtempo and the energetic.
Melbourne artist realises her potential on debut album.
When Ecca Vandal emerged in 2014 with "White Flag", she appeared to be an artist fully formed. A brash electro-punk anthem complete with striking DIY film clip, it wasn't a question of how good it was, but more where did she come from?
Putting out singles is, of course, a different exercise to releasing a debut album, something not lost on the singer given that she spent a year-and-a-half constructing Ecca Vandal. That the record contains only one previously released song ("End of Time") suggests she resisted the urge to rely on past glories, and a good thing too, for this is a vibrant, dazzling collection of new tunes. Vandal made it clear early on that she wouldn't be boxed in to a certain sound, but the real art here is her ability to fuse multiple genres coherently into each song, as opposed to having the "electro one", the "punk one" and so on. Melody, too, is a going concern, meaning hooks fly thick and fast, be it in the electronic thump of "Future Heroine", the punk guitar rave of "Broke Days, Party Nights" or the stuttering beats of ballad "Cold of the World".
Vandal is an astute lyricist, "Price of Living" taking aim at Australia's offshore detention centres ("Back there I was a lawyer and a mother/Now I'm stuck behind barbed wire"). Only the Garbage-esque rock of "Out on the Inside" feels superfluous to needs – a minor blight on a stunning debut album.
Indie Sydney-siders knock the dust off after a long hiatus.
Having split in 2007, Sydney guitar-pop boffins Hoolahan return to almost the exact same sweet spot they hit with their 1999 debut, King Autumn. From the shoe-gazey opener "The Morning Roll" to lead single "Ev'ry Time You Go", Hoolahan mine a rich heritage of jangling guitars and sweet vocal harmonies. Like the Go-Betweens, Hoolahan place more emphasis on songwriting than having a consistent sound, bouncing confidently between densely-textured bliss-pop, psychedelic experimentation and alt-country twang. While it's not the most cohesive record, Casuarina sounds like talented musos needing to get some great songs off their chest.
Slinky debut from Northern Beaches brotherly duo.
On their debut album, Oli and Louis Leimbach have thrown the kitchen sink of funk, folk and synthy electro at their garrulous, sunny indie pop. The insidious reggae of "Risky Love", pop bounce on "Other Way Round" and deafening echoes of the Strokes on "Can I Be Your Lover" are covered in gooey layers of instrumentation, as barely a moment goes by that isn't polished to a gleaming sheen with horns, strings and playful experimentation. It's all exceptionally pleasant, but it's hard to shake the feeling its heart is being subsumed by its need to prove its worth, even on chest-bursters like "Underground" and "Top Of My List".
In sound and vision, the greying golden god is still on fire.
We carry a flame for lost love. We carry fire to vouchsafe humanity, with all its accumulated wisdom and empathy, through dark days. Robert Plant has a bet each way here, shifting between intense romantic longing ("Season's Song", "Dance With You Tonight") and calling out inhumanity in the savage "New World..."
He referenced the image once before, on the stunning musical watershed of Mighty ReArranger in 2005. But these days are far darker and his mission more urgent at the crossroads of east and west, and at "the dimming of my life" he references wistfully in the dusty swirl of "The May Queen".
That title carries a cheeky glimmer of his past, of course. But his last few albums with the Strange Sensation/Sensational Space Shifters are about kaleidoscopic consolidation, not dry nostalgia: Bron-Yr-Aur and Appalachia, Mali and Morocco fuse seamlessly in this bonfire to incredibly potent effect.
This world spans the rich, slow strings of "A Way With Words" and the title track's mystical twang of djembe and bendir; the terse historical polemic of "Carving Up the World Again… a wall and not a fence" and a majestic duet with Chrissie Hynde on a mellowed rockabilly tune, "Bluebirds Over the Mountain".
Few troubadours alive have this much to carry, let alone do it so lightly. Fifty years since his first album, Plant remains essential.
Smashing Pumpkins head honcho strips back with pleasant results.
Billy Corgan is no stranger to self-indulgence – remember that eight-hour live set inspired by Siddhartha? – so seeing him use his full name on this solo offering sets off the 'pretentious warning' alert. The truth couldn't be more different – this is the most straight forward, stripped-back album of Corgan's career. Accompanied by piano and/or acoustic guitar, the Rick Rubin-helmed Ogilala suffers only from being perfectly pleasant, nothing more, nothing less. "Aeronaut" and "Archer" contain melodies so wistful and beautiful they weaken the knees, but elsewhere Ogilala is notable mainly for hearing Corgan in such raw surroundings, as opposed to its songs.
Sprightly but vanilla electro-pop from arty LA talent.
Given Lawrence Rothman's ongoing experimentation with dazzling and often disturbing video clips and a shape-shifting Bowie-like approach to his own look and style, the Californian's debut LP is surprisingly conventional sonically and musically – a series of upbeat synth-based tracks with roots in 1990s R&B (How To Dress Well, who references the same period more successfully, appears on the so-so "Wolves Still Cry"). In moving away from the adventure of darkly excellent 2013 single "Montauk Fling", Rothman is playing it safe, but his deep, sensuous baritone remains a striking point of difference.
Wordy New Jersey DIY punks deliver storytelling good times.
One of the surprise success stories of wordy, beardy-man-feels punk, the Front Bottoms' easygoing nature belies just how smart, insightful and genuinely moving their ouvre can be. Brian Sella remains strikingly relatable as the everyman with the reedy storytelling voice coughing up sneaky-deep narrative gems like the travelling doubt of "Raining". The plaintive "Trampoline" and charming "Don't Fill Up On Chips" are terrific, but the perky synths on "You Used To Say (Holy Fuck)" and the ponderous "Grand Finale" land awkwardly. But for communal drunken sing-alongs ("Ocean", "Everyone But You") and bud hugs, few do it better.
Spunky diva keeps the energy high, vitriol catchy on seventh album.
Pink was dominating the charts with spunky, real-talking anthems back when today's slow-sad divas were in preschool, and her seventh LP is a reminder of that. The title track and the strummy "Whatever You Want" are vintage Pink, with juicy hooks and pop-rock muscle; "I Am Here" underscores its EDM-powerment message with a gospel choir. Beautiful Trauma's chilled-out middle sags, but "Revenge," her bad-romance duet with Eminem, is an early shot of energy; Max Martin and Shellback's homage to Dr. Dre's skip-step beats may be too on the nose, but Em's rhymes nicely recall a time when even lunatics rode bright hooks.