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Seventeen-year-old
Britney Spears leads a way charmed life.
Her certified-gold debut single, "". . . Baby One More
Time,""
was recorded with producer/songwriter Max Martin of Backstreet
Boys fame. (Hyperventilating!) But her story doesn't start there;
she's yet another offspring of The Mickey Mouse Club, the
stomping grounds of not only TV's Felicity, Keri Russell, but
also
Justin and J.C. of 'N Sync. (Ohmigod, right?) Plus -- get this --
she
got her first kiss from… wait for it… Justin! Yeah,
that Justin! Like,
'N Sync Justin! (Couldja just die?)
Well, don't turn too
green yet, 'cause Britney's got the unenviable
task of opening for 'N Sync on their latest tour, which could
very well earn her the ire of each and every lassie in the crowd.
Hey, we say! You can't go and turn on Britney like that! She's so
sunny and cute and lovable, and she wears her lip gloss with
such carefree abandon. But then again, when you think about it,
she's sending out some pretty mixed signals: she's got that
innocent-prep- school-girl/raging-slut look down pat, and that
pose on her album cover is somewhat suggestive of kinderporn.
And then there's that whole ""Hit me, baby/one more
time"" issue…
oh, let's not even go there.
So who's the real
Britney Spears, anyway? Leader of today's Electric
Youth and future talent to be reckoned with, or yet another
zombified
automaton of the recording industry patriarchy? It's pretty safe
to say
the truth lies somewhere right down the middle -- just like most
of the
material on her debut album. No, Miss Spears didn't pick up a pen
and
write anything herself (she's no Debbie Gibson); this mall-tour
grad
(hello, Tiffany!) is slinging tunes by Max Martin, Eric Foster
White (Whitney
Houston alum), and a whole truckload of Swedes. But don't expect
brain-scorching, maddeningly catchy, addictive-like- hard-drugs
melodies in the Ace of Base, Army of Lovers, or even Roxette
mold;
we're stuck in the safety zone here.
True, "". .
. Baby One More Time"" is super-saturated fun -- who
cares
if the chorus' epic arrangement is lifted straight from
""Everybody
(Backstreet's Back)?"" But the remainder of the
material is pretty much
drained of all emotion and excitement, save for the giddy,
riddim-riddled
""Soda Pop"" (which, in its sheer adolescent
inanity, brings back
fond memories of New Kids on the Block's
""Popsicle"") and a
bachelorette-pad cover of Sonny & Cher's 1967 chestnut
""The
Beat Goes On,"" complete with a damned infectious
bossa-nova
beat. And in the you-must-be-joking department, you simply can't
do any better than the touching ballad ""E-Mail My
Heart."" (""It's been
hours, seems like days/since you went away/and all I do is check
the screen/to see if you're okay."")
As for Spears' voice,
well, she hasn't quite grown into it yet.
She can bare her midriff and baby-doll-growl till the cows come
home, but she's no Aaliyah, and neither Brandy nor Monica should
expect to see bite marks on their heels any time soon. (Robyn,
however, should check and see if her thunder is missing.)
Possibly the most
notable thing about Spears' debut is her chirpy
appearance at the end of the disc to shill sneak previews of
three,
count 'em, three new songs by her Jive labelmates, Backstreet
Boys.
(Gasp!) That's one whole minute of new BSB material! Is this a
new zenith
in cross-promotional extremism? Proof that adolescent girls want
their
babysitting money forcibly removed from their Hello Kitty
wallets?
Incentive? Blackmail? Take your pick. Will it work? Oh, just you
watch.
-Kim Stitzel February
23, 2001