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If Britney Spears was intelligent enough to try for an ounce of credibility she might turn out something like Hands, which is all over the map as far as style goes but still keeps the same “pop record trying really really hard for indie cred” theme throughout, which it accomplishes mainly by trying to emulate Depeche Mode – it succeeds with a small handful of catchy pop tracks but ultimately comes across as unremarkable.
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Welcome back to the world of Lily Allen, where the men worth crying over once they inevitably leave her are far outnumbered by the ones with small penises who can’t satisfy her sexually, and where singing about this angst with a deceptively sweet and calm voice makes for a pretty darn good pop album; it’s like the (DC Comics) Anti-Life Equation – a mathematical equation proving the futility of life and psychologically enslaves anyone exposed to it — once it has its hooks in you it’s easy to forget that it’s probably the most cynically depressing thing you’ve heard since, well, her last album – except that it’s catchier, heavier, and – dare we say – a little more world-aware and mature.
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