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Britney Spears

Femme Fatale



Dear Britney, I love you. Ke$ha means nearly nothing to me. Rhianna scares me. Katy Perry? A hack. Christina is too busy with histrionic scale climbing to throw down the excessively accessible hooks you've shared with us.

Girl, I know you didn't write these songs. Shucks, Frank Sinatra didn't write the songs he sang. God, you're pretty. Anyway, you have Dr. Luke and Max Wright on board. These dudes make the Top 40 go. They did "Party in the U.S.A." and "Tik-Tok" and "California Gurls." They are that good.


Dr. Luke apes the Lords of Acid on your opener. Whatevs. There is no stopping the tenacious trance of the Euro-pop beat. Your advice to "Keep on dancing till the world ends" has enough energy to sustain a post-apocalyptic foam party for weeks.

Your threadbare lyrics are unimportant. Your choruses entice, regardless of how dumb they are (because of how dumb they are?). A bit of whistling on "I Wanna Go" goes a long way. "Big Fat Bass" is frightfully ridiculous in its Will.I.Am.-ness. The infectious clapping and sedated vocal on "How I Roll" is as good and as "indie" sounding as any Pitchfork darling.

I've missed you, Brit. The Ke$ha poster is coming down.


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