Spring Break
The Daily OrangeFading vocals prove Madonna better seen than heard
By Joshua Alston
Posted: 11/14/05, 11:13 PM EST Section: Face the Music
Madonna
"Confessions on a Dance Floor"
Genre: Dance-Pop
Sounds Like: Daft Punk, Basement Jaxx
65 Decibels
Alright, so maybe Madonna is now a 47-year-old mother of two. So what? What is she supposed to do now, just retire?
Look at her. Her body is an expertly calibrated piece of machinery. Diets, Pilates and the best surgeons money can buy have kept her in such prime condition that the collective effort practically qualifies as taxidermy.
But I guess she's supposed to keep that fabulous body at home all day knitting afghans while men her age shamelessly go gray and get fat only to be told they look "distinguished." You'd just love that, wouldn't you?
Well guess what, you chauvinist jerk? Nobody puts Baby in a corner. Oh no, she's going to get out on the dance floor - doctor's orders be damned - and drop that thang like it's hot, or, at the very least, like it's room temperature.
The problem on "Confessions on a Dance Floor," Madonna's 14th studio album, is that the temperature is tepid throughout.
The album starts out with a bright spark - two in fact - with the lead single "Hung Up" and its chaser, "Get Together." These two songs set the agenda in no uncertain terms. "Confessions" is a chips-all-in dance record, drawing heavily from disco much like Daft Punk, the obvious contemporary point of reference.
"Hung Up" sinks its hooks in deep, thanks to a greedy chunk from an ABBA song that approximates the track to the score of a decades-old Italian porn flick. Each song bleeds into the next and "Get Together" sneaks up seamlessly, piling on overdriven, rumbling synthesizers and drum programming.
By the time the initial pair of songs is over, though, the pink elephant in the room is demanding to be fed. The production is superior, thanks to the album's main co-producer Stuart Price, along with Mirwais and Bloodshy & Avant.
However, to paraphrase a Madge quote from a biography film, she became a singer because she has things to say, not because she has the best voice. As such, "Confessions" becomes gradually more awkward as the listener realizes that Madonna is trying to turn a producer's genre into a singer's genre.
Her less-than-stellar voice and lyrics are much too elaborate and high in the mix, drawing undue attention toward themselves. Take "I Love New York," for example, in which a petulant, juvenile Maddie sings "If you don't like my attitude, then you can f-off." We love your attitude; we just hate your lyrics.
"Confessions" is a top-shelf dance record so long as it's actually listened to while dancing. Slow down long enough to hear the singing, and the refreshing puddle of water becomes just another dimple in the desert sand, and Madonna becomes just another mother pressing 50, trying too hard to stay hip.
"Confessions on a Dance Floor"
Genre: Dance-Pop
Sounds Like: Daft Punk, Basement Jaxx
65 Decibels
Alright, so maybe Madonna is now a 47-year-old mother of two. So what? What is she supposed to do now, just retire?
Look at her. Her body is an expertly calibrated piece of machinery. Diets, Pilates and the best surgeons money can buy have kept her in such prime condition that the collective effort practically qualifies as taxidermy.
But I guess she's supposed to keep that fabulous body at home all day knitting afghans while men her age shamelessly go gray and get fat only to be told they look "distinguished." You'd just love that, wouldn't you?
Well guess what, you chauvinist jerk? Nobody puts Baby in a corner. Oh no, she's going to get out on the dance floor - doctor's orders be damned - and drop that thang like it's hot, or, at the very least, like it's room temperature.
The problem on "Confessions on a Dance Floor," Madonna's 14th studio album, is that the temperature is tepid throughout.
The album starts out with a bright spark - two in fact - with the lead single "Hung Up" and its chaser, "Get Together." These two songs set the agenda in no uncertain terms. "Confessions" is a chips-all-in dance record, drawing heavily from disco much like Daft Punk, the obvious contemporary point of reference.
"Hung Up" sinks its hooks in deep, thanks to a greedy chunk from an ABBA song that approximates the track to the score of a decades-old Italian porn flick. Each song bleeds into the next and "Get Together" sneaks up seamlessly, piling on overdriven, rumbling synthesizers and drum programming.
By the time the initial pair of songs is over, though, the pink elephant in the room is demanding to be fed. The production is superior, thanks to the album's main co-producer Stuart Price, along with Mirwais and Bloodshy & Avant.
However, to paraphrase a Madge quote from a biography film, she became a singer because she has things to say, not because she has the best voice. As such, "Confessions" becomes gradually more awkward as the listener realizes that Madonna is trying to turn a producer's genre into a singer's genre.
Her less-than-stellar voice and lyrics are much too elaborate and high in the mix, drawing undue attention toward themselves. Take "I Love New York," for example, in which a petulant, juvenile Maddie sings "If you don't like my attitude, then you can f-off." We love your attitude; we just hate your lyrics.
"Confessions" is a top-shelf dance record so long as it's actually listened to while dancing. Slow down long enough to hear the singing, and the refreshing puddle of water becomes just another dimple in the desert sand, and Madonna becomes just another mother pressing 50, trying too hard to stay hip.
