Britney Spears
"I'm Not A Girl, Not Yet A Woman"


One shite turn deserves another, I suppose.

My friend Dan and I were just talking about Britney today. Yes, we actually do just sit around talking about Britney Spears. Well, not just Britney. Proust too. (I'm not kidding. Don't you hate college students?) We were discussing her new album -- in particular, we were discussing just how unfathomably dire "I'm Not A Girl..." is, and how for all of Britney's hot (ooohh, how it was hot) air about how BRITNEY would be a virtual smorgasbord of new sounds and a completely different approach to teen-pop, the whole damn thing just sounds like bad cover versions of "Stronger" (with the exceptions of "Slave" and "Boys," the Neptunes tracks which just sound like an unfortunate cross between everything else the Neptunes have ever done and a lo-fi porn soundtrack). And while "I'm Not A Girl..." bears no resemblance to "Stronger," it does bear an uncanny resemblance to "My Heart Will Go On," "More Than That," and all the other craptacular ballads that have glutted the pop marketplace all throughout the '90s and well into the '00s. The lyrics are trite, the music is unoriginal. What rough beast could be low enough to sink to this level?

Now the video for "I'm Not A Girl..." has slouched towards Bethlehem to be born. The darkness drops again. And lo, somehow the visual accompaniment makes it even more atrocious, as it is replete with FAR too much Soulful Gazing Into The Camera and altogether too much Moving And Majestic Scenery, as well as Multiple Clips From Britney's Appalling New Film "Crossroads." I use caps to indicate the subtlety of the clip, which is roughly akin to the subtlety of a sledgehammer murder. The tragic thing is, all of the video's quasi-powerful imagery of Britney looking thoughtful, slutty, and thoughtfully slutty (cf. the green frilly nightgown scene) adds up to nothing: the video assembles no emotional whole, and indeed is interchangeable with any video in which a boy band sings soulfully from the mountaintop about how they wanna git it on wit joo. Sweeping helicopter shots, check; immersion in water, check; flares of sunlight, check. It's the identikit video, hastily compiled from the stock visual cliches of deep-feeling to arrive on your televisual doorstep just in time for your holiday deep-feeling needs. In short, it's no good.

O Britney, duplicitous goddess of the unfulfilled come-on. Wherefore art thou, you much-heralded princess of the New Pop Aeon? Mere months ago we were screaming your name, begging for release. But your big makeover can't amount to squat, honey, as long as you're jeapordizing pop's evolution with this piece of throwback trash. Give Max Martin the slip once and for all, get yourself a real producer (I'd pay good money to hear Brian Eno give it a go), and you could tug on some heartstrings with the best of 'em. As it stands, you're just blocking our coronary arteries with this revolting fatty buildup; and without another solid hit, you'll be no stranger to fatty buildup. Just ask the guy whose jumpsuit you borrowed in Vegas.

reviewed by Chris Conroy