Much has been made of the fact that Olivia Rodrigo—unlike Phoebe Bridgers,Beabadoobee and Sabrina Carpenter—wasn't asked to join Taylor Swift on her Eras tour after failing to give Swift songwriting credit on two tracks from Sour, Rodrigo's 2021 debut. (The non-collaborative credits, largely for influence, were added later and to much hullabaloo.) But Rodrigo shouldn't be opening for anyone. She's a towering pop star with an appealingly awkward edge, admired by Annie Clark and Kathleen Hanna, who has called Rodrigo "a revelation." She lives up to that potential on her second album, a bottle rocket messily shooting off excitement and confusion and barbs, some of which land right back in her own heart. As a tween, Rodrigo starred in an American Girl movie. At 20, she's singing "all-american bitch," a clever roller coaster that goes from dreamy folk—her voice soft like breath on a dandelion puff—to giddy pop-punk. "With perfect all-American lips/ And perfect all-American hips/ I know my place, I know my place and this is it ... I scream inside to deal with it," she howls with sarcasm and angst. "bad idea right?" is an irresistible made-for-radio song, with head-banger guitar and new wave bounce, about hooking up with an ex against all better judgment ("See you tonight/ It's a bad idea right? Whatever, it's fine"). "Vampire" deliciously melds traces of Swift (bite your tongue) and My Chemical Romance as Rodrigo aims for the rafters and commits to the to the metaphor: "You sunk your teeth into me/ Bloodsucker, famefucker/ Bleedin' me dry, like a goddamn vampire." "Lacy" is a surprising bit of gothic folk that taps into complicated feelings of friendship and jealousy, its sweet guitar darkly contrasting with a sinister vocal effect. "ballad of a homeschooled girl" bounces on spring-loaded bass and careening '90s indie-rock guitar as she lays bare self-perceived social awkwardness: "I'm on the outside of the greatest inside joke/ And I hate all my clothes/ Feels like my skin doesn't fit right over my bones … Everything I do is tragic/ Every guy I like is gay." Rodrigo and producer Daniel Nigro have a keen sense of dynamics, varying the pop-punk and piano ballads that made Sour a smash. "Making the Bed" makes the most of a big swoony bridge, "Logical" lashes out at a "master manipulator" and "Teenage Dream" finds Rodrigo already worried about outgrowing her youthful charms: "And when does wide-eyed affection and all good intentions start to not be enough?" It's fucked-up and scary and sad, and it builds to a scream-along that is pure catharsis. "get him back!" is anthemic and unafraid to look a little crazy: "Wanna kiss his face (And then I want to get him back)/ With an uppercut (Then I want to get him back)/ I wanna meet his mom (And then I want to get him back)/ Just to tell her her son sucks (Then I want to get him back)." A former Disney girl, Rodrigo is never going to be able to hide her theater-kid tendencies, but there's plenty of room for the drama here. © Shelly Ridenour/Qobuz

The meteoric rise Olivia Rodrigo experienced after Sour would have been thrilling and challenging for any artist, but navigating the cusp of adolescence and adulthood at the same time gave her a bounty of material for her second album. GUTS reveals that she didn't crumble under expectations -- instead, she took notes. Recorded with returning producer Daniel Nigro in the same garage studio where he and Rodrigo made Sour, the album hones in on her soaring, soul-baring ballads and spiky pop-punk manifestos and perfects them. "Driver's License" may have been her debut album's mega-hit, but many fans connected with fiercely catchy singles like "Good 4 U." Several of GUTS' standouts are in the same throbbing vein: Rodrigo cringes at herself and throws shade at an old flame on the new wave-y "love is embarrassing." She makes mistakes gleefully on "bad idea right?," a witty recollection of hooking up with an ex that rivals Wet Leg when it comes to chugging post-punk-pop with droll singalong choruses. Songs like these suggest that Rodrigo's record collection is growing along with her confidence, and though the way "all-american bitch" swings from deceptively winsome folk to raging punk shares pages with Phoebe Bridgers' and Courtney Love's songbooks, she ties it all together even more convincingly than she did on Sour. Likewise, GUTS' not-too-raw, not-too-slick production bolsters her talent for giving complex moods wide appeal. The song "get him back!" tangles revenge and longing in some of the album's most scathing lyrics ("I wanna meet his mom/Just to tell her her son sucks"), but it sounds like a direct hit. This gift is almost as uncommon as her ability to write lyrics so relatable that it feels like she's read her fans' diaries -- or minds. Rodrigo confronts the sting of second and third heartbreaks with hard-earned wisdom, and tracks like "making the bed" and "logical" add a refreshing dose of self-awareness to the catharsis of "Driver's License." And while "vampire"'s recriminations against older men who leech off of her and "sell (her) for parts" may not reflect the everyday reality of her listeners, it brings them into her world with as much authenticity as her other ballads. GUTS even features songs her listeners might not know they need yet: The breathy "pretty isn't pretty" tackles lookism and body dysmorphia, near-universal experiences for young women with surprisingly few songs written about them. Rodrigo does a remarkable job of balancing moments that are very much of the time when she made the album with moments that hint at more: "teenage dream" yearns for the day when she won't be wise beyond her years, and "lacy" explores the intricacies of jealousy and yearning with nuance that a singer/songwriter of any age would be proud to possess. GUTS is emphatic proof that Rodrigo isn't just good for a kid -- she's grown into an artist with plenty of things to say, and the confidence and eloquence to say them her way.© Heather Phares /TiVo

Nothing comes naturally for Katy Perry. Blessed with a cheerleader’s body, the face of a second-chair clarinetist and a drama club queen’s lust for the spotlight, Perry parlayed all these qualities into success via her 2008 pop debut One of the Boys, an album that worked overtime to titillate. Working hard is Katy Perry’s stock in trade: whether she’s cavorting in the Californian sun or heaving her cleavage, she always lets you see her sweat, an effect that undercuts her status as a curvy Teenage Dream, the ideal she puts forth on her 2010 sophomore set. All this labor produces fetching magazine covers -- sometimes accompanied by good copy within -- and grabbing videos but it undoes her records, since we always hear her fighting to be frivolous. And all Perry wants to do is have fun: all she wants is to frolic in the spotlight, and she’ll follow the path of others to get there, raising eyebrows a’la Alanis, strutting like Gwen Stefani and relying on Britney’s hitmaker Max Martin for her hooks. There’s no question Perry is smart enough to know every rule in pop but she’s not inspired enough to ignore them, almost seeming nervous to break away from the de rigeur lite club beats that easily transition from day to night or the chilly, stainless-steel ballads designed to lose none of their luster on repeat plays. Perry acknowledges some shifting trends -- she salutes fellow attention-whore Ke$ha on “Last Friday Night (T.G.I.F.),” replicates Ryan Tedder’s glassy robotic alienation on “E.T.” but tellingly avoids ripping off Lady Gaga, who is just too meta for the blunt Katy -- but these are merely accents to her old One of the Boys palette. And, once again, the music feels familiar, so Perry distinguishes herself through desperate vulgarity, wooing a suitor with “you make me feel like I’m losing my virginity,” extolling the virtues of blackouts and an accidental ménage a trois, melting popsicles, pleading for a boy to show her his “Peacock” (chanting “cock cock cock” just in case we at home didn’t get the single entendre). All this stylized provocation is exhausting, and not just because there’s so much of it (none of it actually arousing). It’s tiring because, at her heart, Perry is old-fashioned and is invested in none of her aggressive teasing. Not for nothing did she give her best post-One of the Boys song, “I Do Not Hook Up,” to Kelly Clarkson; its pro-abstinence rally flies in the face of the masturbatory daydream she’s constructed. It's ironic that her best song finds her lurking behind the scenes, because Perry's greatest talent is to be a willing cog in the pop machine, delivering sleek singles like “Teenage Dream” and “Hummingbird Heartbeat” with efficiency. Isolated on the radio, the way “Hot N Cold” was in 2009, these singles will wind up obscuring the overheated and undercooked nature of Teenage Dream as a whole. Then again, the album itself is almost incidental to the self-styled fantasy that Katy Perry sells with this entire project.© Stephen Thomas Erlewine /TiVo

The meteoric rise Olivia Rodrigo experienced after Sour would have been thrilling and challenging for any artist, but navigating the cusp of adolescence and adulthood at the same time gave her a bounty of material for her second album. GUTS reveals that she didn't crumble under expectations -- instead, she took notes. Recorded with returning producer Daniel Nigro in the same garage studio where he and Rodrigo made Sour, the album hones in on her soaring, soul-baring ballads and spiky pop-punk manifestos and perfects them. "Driver's License" may have been her debut album's mega-hit, but many fans connected with fiercely catchy singles like "Good 4 U." Several of GUTS' standouts are in the same throbbing vein: Rodrigo cringes at herself and throws shade at an old flame on the new wave-y "love is embarrassing." She makes mistakes gleefully on "bad idea right?," a witty recollection of hooking up with an ex that rivals Wet Leg when it comes to chugging post-punk-pop with droll singalong choruses. Songs like these suggest that Rodrigo's record collection is growing along with her confidence, and though the way "all-american bitch" swings from deceptively winsome folk to raging punk shares pages with Phoebe Bridgers' and Courtney Love's songbooks, she ties it all together even more convincingly than she did on Sour. Likewise, GUTS' not-too-raw, not-too-slick production bolsters her talent for giving complex moods wide appeal. The song "get him back!" tangles revenge and longing in some of the album's most scathing lyrics ("I wanna meet his mom/Just to tell her her son sucks"), but it sounds like a direct hit. This gift is almost as uncommon as her ability to write lyrics so relatable that it feels like she's read her fans' diaries -- or minds. Rodrigo confronts the sting of second and third heartbreaks with hard-earned wisdom, and tracks like "making the bed" and "logical" add a refreshing dose of self-awareness to the catharsis of "Driver's License." And while "vampire"'s recriminations against older men who leech off of her and "sell (her) for parts" may not reflect the everyday reality of her listeners, it brings them into her world with as much authenticity as her other ballads. GUTS even features songs her listeners might not know they need yet: The breathy "pretty isn't pretty" tackles lookism and body dysmorphia, near-universal experiences for young women with surprisingly few songs written about them. Rodrigo does a remarkable job of balancing moments that are very much of the time when she made the album with moments that hint at more: "teenage dream" yearns for the day when she won't be wise beyond her years, and "lacy" explores the intricacies of jealousy and yearning with nuance that a singer/songwriter of any age would be proud to possess. GUTS is emphatic proof that Rodrigo isn't just good for a kid -- she's grown into an artist with plenty of things to say, and the confidence and eloquence to say them her way.© Heather Phares /TiVo

Nothing comes naturally for Katy Perry. Blessed with a cheerleader’s body, the face of a second-chair clarinetist and a drama club queen’s lust for the spotlight, Perry parlayed all these qualities into success via her 2008 pop debut One of the Boys, an album that worked overtime to titillate. Working hard is Katy Perry’s stock in trade: whether she’s cavorting in the Californian sun or heaving her cleavage, she always lets you see her sweat, an effect that undercuts her status as a curvy Teenage Dream, the ideal she puts forth on her 2010 sophomore set. All this labor produces fetching magazine covers -- sometimes accompanied by good copy within -- and grabbing videos but it undoes her records, since we always hear her fighting to be frivolous. And all Perry wants to do is have fun: all she wants is to frolic in the spotlight, and she’ll follow the path of others to get there, raising eyebrows a’la Alanis, strutting like Gwen Stefani and relying on Britney’s hitmaker Max Martin for her hooks. There’s no question Perry is smart enough to know every rule in pop but she’s not inspired enough to ignore them, almost seeming nervous to break away from the de rigeur lite club beats that easily transition from day to night or the chilly, stainless-steel ballads designed to lose none of their luster on repeat plays. Perry acknowledges some shifting trends -- she salutes fellow attention-whore Ke$ha on “Last Friday Night (T.G.I.F.),” replicates Ryan Tedder’s glassy robotic alienation on “E.T.” but tellingly avoids ripping off Lady Gaga, who is just too meta for the blunt Katy -- but these are merely accents to her old One of the Boys palette. And, once again, the music feels familiar, so Perry distinguishes herself through desperate vulgarity, wooing a suitor with “you make me feel like I’m losing my virginity,” extolling the virtues of blackouts and an accidental ménage a trois, melting popsicles, pleading for a boy to show her his “Peacock” (chanting “cock cock cock” just in case we at home didn’t get the single entendre). All this stylized provocation is exhausting, and not just because there’s so much of it (none of it actually arousing). It’s tiring because, at her heart, Perry is old-fashioned and is invested in none of her aggressive teasing. Not for nothing did she give her best post-One of the Boys song, “I Do Not Hook Up,” to Kelly Clarkson; its pro-abstinence rally flies in the face of the masturbatory daydream she’s constructed. It's ironic that her best song finds her lurking behind the scenes, because Perry's greatest talent is to be a willing cog in the pop machine, delivering sleek singles like “Teenage Dream” and “Hummingbird Heartbeat” with efficiency. Isolated on the radio, the way “Hot N Cold” was in 2009, these singles will wind up obscuring the overheated and undercooked nature of Teenage Dream as a whole. Then again, the album itself is almost incidental to the self-styled fantasy that Katy Perry sells with this entire project. © Stephen Thomas Erlewine /TiVo

Nothing comes naturally for Katy Perry. Blessed with a cheerleader’s body, the face of a second-chair clarinetist and a drama club queen’s lust for the spotlight, Perry parlayed all these qualities into success via her 2008 pop debut One of the Boys, an album that worked overtime to titillate. Working hard is Katy Perry’s stock in trade: whether she’s cavorting in the Californian sun or heaving her cleavage, she always lets you see her sweat, an effect that undercuts her status as a curvy Teenage Dream, the ideal she puts forth on her 2010 sophomore set. All this labor produces fetching magazine covers -- sometimes accompanied by good copy within -- and grabbing videos but it undoes her records, since we always hear her fighting to be frivolous. And all Perry wants to do is have fun: all she wants is to frolic in the spotlight, and she’ll follow the path of others to get there, raising eyebrows a’la Alanis, strutting like Gwen Stefani and relying on Britney’s hitmaker Max Martin for her hooks. There’s no question Perry is smart enough to know every rule in pop but she’s not inspired enough to ignore them, almost seeming nervous to break away from the de rigeur lite club beats that easily transition from day to night or the chilly, stainless-steel ballads designed to lose none of their luster on repeat plays. Perry acknowledges some shifting trends -- she salutes fellow attention-whore Ke$ha on “Last Friday Night (T.G.I.F.),” replicates Ryan Tedder’s glassy robotic alienation on “E.T.” but tellingly avoids ripping off Lady Gaga, who is just too meta for the blunt Katy -- but these are merely accents to her old One of the Boys palette. And, once again, the music feels familiar, so Perry distinguishes herself through desperate vulgarity, wooing a suitor with “you make me feel like I’m losing my virginity,” extolling the virtues of blackouts and an accidental ménage a trois, melting popsicles, pleading for a boy to show her his “Peacock” (chanting “cock cock cock” just in case we at home didn’t get the single entendre). All this stylized provocation is exhausting, and not just because there’s so much of it (none of it actually arousing). It’s tiring because, at her heart, Perry is old-fashioned and is invested in none of her aggressive teasing. Not for nothing did she give her best post-One of the Boys song, “I Do Not Hook Up,” to Kelly Clarkson; its pro-abstinence rally flies in the face of the masturbatory daydream she’s constructed. It's ironic that her best song finds her lurking behind the scenes, because Perry's greatest talent is to be a willing cog in the pop machine, delivering sleek singles like “Teenage Dream” and “Hummingbird Heartbeat” with efficiency. Isolated on the radio, the way “Hot N Cold” was in 2009, these singles will wind up obscuring the overheated and undercooked nature of Teenage Dream as a whole. Then again, the album itself is almost incidental to the self-styled fantasy that Katy Perry sells with this entire project.© Stephen Thomas Erlewine /TiVo

Much has been made of the fact that Olivia Rodrigo—unlike Phoebe Bridgers,Beabadoobee and Sabrina Carpenter—wasn't asked to join Taylor Swift on her Eras tour after failing to give Swift songwriting credit on two tracks from Sour, Rodrigo's 2021 debut. (The non-collaborative credits, largely for influence, were added later and to much hullabaloo.) But Rodrigo shouldn't be opening for anyone. She's a towering pop star with an appealingly awkward edge, admired by Annie Clark and Kathleen Hanna, who has called Rodrigo "a revelation." She lives up to that potential on her second album, a bottle rocket messily shooting off excitement and confusion and barbs, some of which land right back in her own heart. As a tween, Rodrigo starred in an American Girl movie. At 20, she's singing "all-american bitch," a clever roller coaster that goes from dreamy folk—her voice soft like breath on a dandelion puff—to giddy pop-punk. "With perfect all-American lips/ And perfect all-American hips/ I know my place, I know my place and this is it ... I scream inside to deal with it," she howls with sarcasm and angst. "bad idea right?" is an irresistible made-for-radio song, with head-banger guitar and new wave bounce, about hooking up with an ex against all better judgment ("See you tonight/ It's a bad idea right? Whatever, it's fine"). "Vampire" deliciously melds traces of Swift (bite your tongue) and My Chemical Romance as Rodrigo aims for the rafters and commits to the to the metaphor: "You sunk your teeth into me/ Bloodsucker, famefucker/ Bleedin' me dry, like a goddamn vampire." "Lacy" is a surprising bit of gothic folk that taps into complicated feelings of friendship and jealousy, its sweet guitar darkly contrasting with a sinister vocal effect. "ballad of a homeschooled girl" bounces on spring-loaded bass and careening '90s indie-rock guitar as she lays bare self-perceived social awkwardness: "I'm on the outside of the greatest inside joke/ And I hate all my clothes/ Feels like my skin doesn't fit right over my bones … Everything I do is tragic/ Every guy I like is gay." Rodrigo and producer Daniel Nigro have a keen sense of dynamics, varying the pop-punk and piano ballads that made Sour a smash. "Making the Bed" makes the most of a big swoony bridge, "Logical" lashes out at a "master manipulator" and "Teenage Dream" finds Rodrigo already worried about outgrowing her youthful charms: "And when does wide-eyed affection and all good intentions start to not be enough?" It's fucked-up and scary and sad, and it builds to a scream-along that is pure catharsis. "get him back!" is anthemic and unafraid to look a little crazy: "Wanna kiss his face (And then I want to get him back)/ With an uppercut (Then I want to get him back)/ I wanna meet his mom (And then I want to get him back)/ Just to tell her her son sucks (Then I want to get him back)." A former Disney girl, Rodrigo is never going to be able to hide her theater-kid tendencies, but there's plenty of room for the drama here. © Shelly Ridenour/Qobuz

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Kicking off the most exhaustive exhumation yet of the Pink Fairies' early-'70s catalog, the remastered Neverneverland readily takes its place among the era's most crucial debuts, a hard-rocking, free-flowing, and, above all, anarchic monster that opens with the definitive statement of yippie intent, "Do It," and doesn't look back. Titled for radical Jerry Rubin's book of the same name, "Do It" remains a manifesto for the revolution that never quite got off the ground, a gutsy affirmation that the Pink Fairies were never to eclipse. Originally released as a January 1971 single, "Do It" also appears among the bonus tracks in its edited (three-minute) 45 rpm format, together with its turbulent B-side, the similarly barnstorming "The Snake." And it must be admitted that anybody entering the realm of the Pink Fairies from those points of view is in for at least a few surprises. While "Say You Love Me" and "Teenage Rebel" certainly adhere to the band's rockiest tendencies, the ballad "Heavenly Man" sounds like nothing so much as those other pink things, Pink Floyd circa Obscured by Clouds, while "War Girl" has a distinct American R&B tinge to it. Other moods float in and out of focus before Neverneverland returns to Free Festival central for the live crowd-pleaser "Uncle Harry's Last Freak-Out" -- present in both its 11-minute LP form and, among the bonus tracks, the 12-minute instrumental prototype that was one of the band's first studio attempts at the piece. Needless to say, both are as relentless as the title insists -- and as fiery as the Pink Fairies' own reputation demand they should be.© Dave Thompson /TiVo

Nothing comes naturally for Katy Perry. Blessed with a cheerleader’s body, the face of a second-chair clarinetist and a drama club queen’s lust for the spotlight, Perry parlayed all these qualities into success via her 2008 pop debut One of the Boys, an album that worked overtime to titillate. Working hard is Katy Perry’s stock in trade: whether she’s cavorting in the Californian sun or heaving her cleavage, she always lets you see her sweat, an effect that undercuts her status as a curvy Teenage Dream, the ideal she puts forth on her 2010 sophomore set. All this labor produces fetching magazine covers -- sometimes accompanied by good copy within -- and grabbing videos but it undoes her records, since we always hear her fighting to be frivolous. And all Perry wants to do is have fun: all she wants is to frolic in the spotlight, and she’ll follow the path of others to get there, raising eyebrows a’la Alanis, strutting like Gwen Stefani and relying on Britney’s hitmaker Max Martin for her hooks. There’s no question Perry is smart enough to know every rule in pop but she’s not inspired enough to ignore them, almost seeming nervous to break away from the de rigeur lite club beats that easily transition from day to night or the chilly, stainless-steel ballads designed to lose none of their luster on repeat plays. Perry acknowledges some shifting trends -- she salutes fellow attention-whore Ke$ha on “Last Friday Night (T.G.I.F.),” replicates Ryan Tedder’s glassy robotic alienation on “E.T.” but tellingly avoids ripping off Lady Gaga, who is just too meta for the blunt Katy -- but these are merely accents to her old One of the Boys palette. And, once again, the music feels familiar, so Perry distinguishes herself through desperate vulgarity, wooing a suitor with “you make me feel like I’m losing my virginity,” extolling the virtues of blackouts and an accidental ménage a trois, melting popsicles, pleading for a boy to show her his “Peacock” (chanting “cock cock cock” just in case we at home didn’t get the single entendre). All this stylized provocation is exhausting, and not just because there’s so much of it (none of it actually arousing). It’s tiring because, at her heart, Perry is old-fashioned and is invested in none of her aggressive teasing. Not for nothing did she give her best post-One of the Boys song, “I Do Not Hook Up,” to Kelly Clarkson; its pro-abstinence rally flies in the face of the masturbatory daydream she’s constructed. It's ironic that her best song finds her lurking behind the scenes, because Perry's greatest talent is to be a willing cog in the pop machine, delivering sleek singles like “Teenage Dream” and “Hummingbird Heartbeat” with efficiency. Isolated on the radio, the way “Hot N Cold” was in 2009, these singles will wind up obscuring the overheated and undercooked nature of Teenage Dream as a whole. Then again, the album itself is almost incidental to the self-styled fantasy that Katy Perry sells with this entire project.© Stephen Thomas Erlewine /TiVo

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Nothing comes naturally for Katy Perry. Blessed with a cheerleader’s body, the face of a second-chair clarinetist and a drama club queen’s lust for the spotlight, Perry parlayed all these qualities into success via her 2008 pop debut One of the Boys, an album that worked overtime to titillate. Working hard is Katy Perry’s stock in trade: whether she’s cavorting in the Californian sun or heaving her cleavage, she always lets you see her sweat, an effect that undercuts her status as a curvy Teenage Dream, the ideal she puts forth on her 2010 sophomore set. All this labor produces fetching magazine covers -- sometimes accompanied by good copy within -- and grabbing videos but it undoes her records, since we always hear her fighting to be frivolous. And all Perry wants to do is have fun: all she wants is to frolic in the spotlight, and she’ll follow the path of others to get there, raising eyebrows a’la Alanis, strutting like Gwen Stefani and relying on Britney’s hitmaker Max Martin for her hooks. There’s no question Perry is smart enough to know every rule in pop but she’s not inspired enough to ignore them, almost seeming nervous to break away from the de rigeur lite club beats that easily transition from day to night or the chilly, stainless-steel ballads designed to lose none of their luster on repeat plays. Perry acknowledges some shifting trends -- she salutes fellow attention-whore Ke$ha on “Last Friday Night (T.G.I.F.),” replicates Ryan Tedder’s glassy robotic alienation on “E.T.” but tellingly avoids ripping off Lady Gaga, who is just too meta for the blunt Katy -- but these are merely accents to her old One of the Boys palette. And, once again, the music feels familiar, so Perry distinguishes herself through desperate vulgarity, wooing a suitor with “you make me feel like I’m losing my virginity,” extolling the virtues of blackouts and an accidental ménage a trois, melting popsicles, pleading for a boy to show her his “Peacock” (chanting “cock cock cock” just in case we at home didn’t get the single entendre). All this stylized provocation is exhausting, and not just because there’s so much of it (none of it actually arousing). It’s tiring because, at her heart, Perry is old-fashioned and is invested in none of her aggressive teasing. Not for nothing did she give her best post-One of the Boys song, “I Do Not Hook Up,” to Kelly Clarkson; its pro-abstinence rally flies in the face of the masturbatory daydream she’s constructed. It's ironic that her best song finds her lurking behind the scenes, because Perry's greatest talent is to be a willing cog in the pop machine, delivering sleek singles like “Teenage Dream” and “Hummingbird Heartbeat” with efficiency. Isolated on the radio, the way “Hot N Cold” was in 2009, these singles will wind up obscuring the overheated and undercooked nature of Teenage Dream as a whole. Then again, the album itself is almost incidental to the self-styled fantasy that Katy Perry sells with this entire project.© Stephen Thomas Erlewine /TiVo

Nothing comes naturally for Katy Perry. Blessed with a cheerleader’s body, the face of a second-chair clarinetist and a drama club queen’s lust for the spotlight, Perry parlayed all these qualities into success via her 2008 pop debut One of the Boys, an album that worked overtime to titillate. Working hard is Katy Perry’s stock in trade: whether she’s cavorting in the Californian sun or heaving her cleavage, she always lets you see her sweat, an effect that undercuts her status as a curvy Teenage Dream, the ideal she puts forth on her 2010 sophomore set. All this labor produces fetching magazine covers -- sometimes accompanied by good copy within -- and grabbing videos but it undoes her records, since we always hear her fighting to be frivolous. And all Perry wants to do is have fun: all she wants is to frolic in the spotlight, and she’ll follow the path of others to get there, raising eyebrows a’la Alanis, strutting like Gwen Stefani and relying on Britney’s hitmaker Max Martin for her hooks. There’s no question Perry is smart enough to know every rule in pop but she’s not inspired enough to ignore them, almost seeming nervous to break away from the de rigeur lite club beats that easily transition from day to night or the chilly, stainless-steel ballads designed to lose none of their luster on repeat plays. Perry acknowledges some shifting trends -- she salutes fellow attention-whore Ke$ha on “Last Friday Night (T.G.I.F.),” replicates Ryan Tedder’s glassy robotic alienation on “E.T.” but tellingly avoids ripping off Lady Gaga, who is just too meta for the blunt Katy -- but these are merely accents to her old One of the Boys palette. And, once again, the music feels familiar, so Perry distinguishes herself through desperate vulgarity, wooing a suitor with “you make me feel like I’m losing my virginity,” extolling the virtues of blackouts and an accidental ménage a trois, melting popsicles, pleading for a boy to show her his “Peacock” (chanting “cock cock cock” just in case we at home didn’t get the single entendre). All this stylized provocation is exhausting, and not just because there’s so much of it (none of it actually arousing). It’s tiring because, at her heart, Perry is old-fashioned and is invested in none of her aggressive teasing. Not for nothing did she give her best post-One of the Boys song, “I Do Not Hook Up,” to Kelly Clarkson; its pro-abstinence rally flies in the face of the masturbatory daydream she’s constructed. It's ironic that her best song finds her lurking behind the scenes, because Perry's greatest talent is to be a willing cog in the pop machine, delivering sleek singles like “Teenage Dream” and “Hummingbird Heartbeat” with efficiency. Isolated on the radio, the way “Hot N Cold” was in 2009, these singles will wind up obscuring the overheated and undercooked nature of Teenage Dream as a whole. Then again, the album itself is almost incidental to the self-styled fantasy that Katy Perry sells with this entire project.© Stephen Thomas Erlewine /TiVo

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