Review Summary: That's hot. This is not.
This is Paris Hilton singing.
*pause*
Done laughing yet? Well, then, I can proceed and tell you that, to tell the truth, this album is not that bad. I was all ready to bash it, I even had a summary too great to be laid to waste (I’m using it up there), but my plans got foiled by the record’s surprising acceptableness. Oh, sure, it never even approaches “good”, but for all the unmitigated disaster potential it had (which everyone expected it to fulfill), it’s more mildly nauseating than outright poisonous. In other words, this isn’t the Steven Seagal album, guys.
In fact, it may be closer to Lillian Garcia’s debut – also reviewed by myself a while back – in that it contains a couple of charming tracks surrounded by unabashed, yet entertaining filler. Actually, I’m ashamed to say that, at times, I found myself genuinely enjoying this album. Yes, I was enjoying the Paris Hilton album. There goes my credibility.
What boggles my mind, actually, is how an album this lightweight took
two years in the making. It’s not like Paris is as dumb as she looks – she’s no Jessica Simpson – so it can’t have been the need to explain studio methods to her. The use of AutoTune excludes the possibility of repeat takes. And the songs? I could write them blindfolded in fifteen minutes. So what was it?
Well, nevermind that, on to the music. As you’d expect, it’s exactly the kind of club pop Paris listens to on a nightly basis, at each party she goes to. However, along the way, there are some odd attempts at branching out that end up working better than the actual club sound.
“But what about Paris?!”, you ask “how does she sound?” Well…faceless, and certainly untalented, but not disastrous. Again, this isn’t Seagal – this girl has some semblance of a voice, and – aided by AutoTune – is capable of keeping in pitch. The closest comparison i can come up with is a preteen version of
Toxic-era Britney. Imagine a 12-year-old covering
I’m A Slave For You and you’re pretty close to what Paris sounds like on these 11 tracks.
In fact, the whole thing sounds like a middle-school cheerleader locked in her bedroom trying to emulate her idols – Britney, for sure, but also Ashlee and Jessica Simpson, and even a bit of Kelly Clarkson thrown in for good measure. Now imagine that girl wrote her own songs and, somehow, got access to a good producer, a ton of cash, and two whole years of free time. The end result would almost certainly be this album.
It comes as no surprise, if we consider Paris is essentially an overgrown 13-year-old, that the lyrics here are self-indulgent, bitchy, and conceited beyond belief. Paris is a walking movie streotype – the blonde girl who rules the school, says things like “my Daddy will make sure I make the volleyball team” and gets pleasure out of taunting boys. The lyrics reflect this.
Jealousy is every bit as catty as you’d expect, paralelled only by Ashlee’s
Boyfriend, also dedicated to a former BFF.
Turn You On is nauseatingly self-aggrandizing, with lines like “
I’m sexy and you know it, clap your hands”, “
the club’s not hot until i walk through” or, my personal favorite,
”sorry if I turn you on/take a cold shower when you get home”.
Fighting Over Me has two Z-list rappers vying for Ms Hilton’s attention, while she husks about how she’s
”hot to death and so, so, so sexy”…The examples are endless.
Even stranger, however, is how, on other songs, the composers sought to expose a frailer, more sensitive side of Paris. Needless to say, it fails redundantly.
”Excuse me for feeling”, Hilton purrs on lead single
Stars Are Blind; but she can’t resist adding that
”we could make it nice and naughty” and considering herself
”perfect for you”. It’s this kind of attitude that ultimately prevents the listener from taking songs such as
Heartbeat or
Stars are Blind itself seriously.
But enough about the lyrics, i could go on all day. What of the music? Well, as noted, it’s mostly club pop, of the throwaway variety. However, there are also some attempts at mixing styles, such as in the reggae-tinged lead single, the Ashlee/Clarkson/Lavigne pastiche
Jealousy, or minimalistic ballad
Heartbeat.
The album starts off with three strong tracks.
Turn It Up sets the mood for the album, while
Fighting Over Me gives strong proeminence to the guest rappers, to the extent that it can’t really be considered a Paris Hilton track. As for the overall sound…well, you know those “In the VIP” porn videos? Come on, i know you’ve watched them, don’t act like you haven’t! You know the songs that are always playing in the background when they’re at a club? OK, that’s what this song sounds like. Finally, there is
Stars Are Blind, which plops a fake reggae groove on top of the fake drum beat, but ends up making it sound endearing.
However, pretty soon, we’re back in Fillerland. In fact, any novelty value of this album is over at the end of the first track, and any interest real music lovers might have had vanishes after track five. What we’re left with is a bunch of harmless bubblegum dancepop, that – just like the 12-year-old mentioned previously – sheds all pretence of the cool, hip attitude it displayed earlier and revels in Europop pastiches that would make Aqua blush. On tracks like
Heartbeat and, particularly,
Screwed, Paris seems to be channeling all those forgotten luminaries from the last decade – Lene Marlin, Whigfield, the Vengaboys chicas…what, you don’t know who they are? That shows how “relevant” the style was.
The fact that someone as purportedly hip with the times as Paris would choose to perform such an outdated style baffles the mind. Similarly, the option for fadeouts in nearly every track leads one to think how someone who just CAN NOT be seen without the latest handbag doesn’t have a clue that music has been made, and production techniques have evolved, after the eighties.
Oh, but who cares?! This is a completely self-indulgent project, destined to please exactly two people: Paris Hilton and producer Scott Storch, who is vain enough to have the fifth and sixth words out of Paris’ mouth be a namedrop for him. When he is namedropped AGAIN on the following track, you know the man must have delusions of grandeur. Probably thinks he’s Phil Spector or something. Oh, and if it was his idea to get Paris to cover that Rod Stewart song, it was a bad, bad idea. To call it endless torture would be to put it mildly.
All in all, what we have here is an album that, while not horrible (especially considering the source), and at times mildly enjoyable, is still very weak. Nobody finds Paris all that hot – the only declared Paris fan I ever knew was a barely-closeted gay man – and we’re not even treated to an appearance by Tinker Bell. A shame, since she might have sounded better than her owner. As a form of consolation, this album’s diminutive mainstream success ensures Ms Hilton will never come near a mixing board again.
Recommended Tracks
Stars Are Blind
Jealousy
Screwed
