Fever
Processed, perfect, vorsprung dürch discotheque-nik at its most advanced, a mystery wrapped in an enigma wrapped in increasingly tiny outfits
Kim Porcelli
Empires rise and fall, tectonic plates shift imperceptibly over countless millennia, whole species appear and then fade into extinction, history plays out its human comedy over time like a speeded up film of day changing into night on the Discovery Channel, and… bloody hell, is she still here? Of course she is.
She’s Kylie: she’s survived soap stardom, bubblegum-pop, sexpot-pop, indie-pop, Ibiza-pop and ironic-gay-icon-pop; she looks, if anything, younger and fitter with every passing year; she is currently heading for the UK Number One for the 723rd time, and she will outlive us all, of this your reporter is certain.
Anyone who can shapeshift at this rate, and who can rub collaborative shoulders with Robbie Williams, the Manics and Nick Cave and still remain a pallid shade of a pop star, a total cipher – Olivia Newton-John in better (and fewer) clothes – is clearly a member of some hitherto-unknown super-race: on the small side maybe, only capable of third-rate disco-pop perhaps, but immortal.
Current single ‘Can’t Get You Out Of My Head’ is, admittedly, brilliant: cold Teutonic keyboards and Tubeway Army’s assembly-line stiffness given a glam Cosmo Girl makeover. And several more, inferior, singles will doubtlessly follow, will have pristinely photographed videos and will seep inoffensively into the pop atmosphere, soundtracking the überpubs, harming nobody.
Listening to twelve of the things in a row, however, amounts to a kind of torture. The vibe is neither disco-inferno nor Ibiza-lite cool, but high-street chain store: girly, uptempo, indistinguishable, irritating disco-pop that’s meant to induce the trying-on of sparkly tops and naughty behaviour with the credit card.
As such, it comes complete with shoplifting. Mmm, fancy that Modjo bassline… PINCH! Deftly into the pocket it goes, later to reappear beneath the title track. Ooh, that Donna Summer vocal line quite suits me… FILCH! Worn out of the dressing room beneath her own jumper, and next time you see it it’s the outro of ‘More More More.’ Take That were quite good, weren’t they… SWIPE! Off come the tags, turn it inside out and it’s called ‘Dancefloor.’ Being a fair-minded lass however, she steals from herself too: ‘Spinning Around’ is referenced at least twice, and ‘Come Into My World’ actually is ‘Can’t Get You Out Of My Head’, albeit with the notes in a slightly different order.
Processed, perfect, vorsprung dürch discotheque-nik at its most advanced, a mystery wrapped in an enigma wrapped in increasingly tiny outfits: throwaway pop has never been so aerodynamic. Watch. Ka-PING! goes the CD as it backboards into the bin. Now that’s what I call music.
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