“Stronger,” Kelly Clarkson (RCA Records)
Kelly Clarkson, perhaps more than any other female pop star today, is queen of the scorned-woman anthem. Her fifth studio album, “Stronger,” stays squarely in that zone.
As always, Clarkson’s awe-inspiring vocal range is the selling point. It’s a sometimes-startling contrast, hearing her rage against so much slick production (courtesy of Rodney Jerkins, Greg Kurstin, Josh Abraham, Toby Gad). These are big, brash songs about bad men who don’t deserve her, thank you very much. This isn’t a perfect record, and it’s maybe too long by a couple of mopey tracks. But even after a few listens, it’s clear this is a solid, satisfying journey.
That wasn’t completely evident with first single “Mr. Know It All,” a midtempo shuffler that recalled Clarkson’s debut album. It’s good but not great, a tentative kiss-off that needed to be messier, or just louder.
By the second track, she’s thankfully back in fighting form. “What Doesn’t Kill You (Stronger)” is a dance-rock anthem of arena proportions that should have been the first single. It’s terrifically over the top, destined for fist pumps and top-of-the-lungs sing-alongs.
The most interesting moments on “Stronger” find Clarkson stamping a bit of prickly personality on the pop-rock framework. “Dark Side” recalls Clarkson’s underappreciated “My December” disc, a swirl of lullaby strains and goth-pop grooves. Think Katy Perry with a much, much better voice.
“Stronger” only slips, slightly, when Clarkson brings the energy down. “Standing in Front of You” is a sweet, evocative ballad made for a wintry scene in a romantic dramedy, and “Breaking Your Own Heart” is downright dreary.
But even when the original American Idol isn’t maximizing her potential, she’s still worth a listen. A half-hearted Clarkson tune is worth at least three from so many lesser, less-interesting singers. Joey Guerra, Houston Chronicle
Lou Reed and Metallica, “Lulu” (Warner Bros.)
Lou Reed and Metallica are not only two of the more exalted names in music — pioneers of punk and thrash metal, respectively — they’re among the most perverse.
Though “Lulu,” their first studio collaboration, is a work that invites derision, anybody who has followed the careers of its makers shouldn’t be too surprised. They’ve both gone off the deep end before, though never quite so spectacularly.
Reed infamously made “Metal Machine Music” in the ’70s, a double album of feedback that was interpreted as a joke, a provocation or a horrible mistake. He broke up his headlining set at Lollapalooza in 2009 with a 15-minute tsunami of static.
Metallica alienated its hard-core fans by wrestling with a ’90s identity crisis and refashioning itself as an alternative-rock band.
In theory, the notion of rock stars taking sometimes ridiculous chances with their music has appeal. But the worst of Reed and Metallica is unlistenable.
Which brings us to “Lulu,” for which Reed suggested to Metallica that they record songs he was developing for the “Lulu Plays,” a production by playwright Robert Wilson that interprets the century-old work of German expressionist Frank Wedekind about the horrible, short life of an abused dancer.
This sort of subject matter is nothing new for Reed. But his lyrics for “Lulu” verge on self-parody, a series of blunt objects that make “Saw IV” seem nuanced and humane. The album opens with a description of sexual mutilation so vivid it can’t be reprinted here, and the trail of depravity deepens with each song. “Use a knife on me!” “Blood spurting from me!” Reed croaks.
The graphic images are tied to equally dismal, unrelenting music. Metallica settles into dirge tempos, one-chord stomps or monotone ambiance. The 10 songs weigh in at 87 minutes, and with the exception of “Iced Honey” and “The View,” they offer little in the way of melody or anything resembling a chorus.
There’s a sliver of tenderness in the first few minutes of “Junior Dad.” Then the music dissolves into more than 11 minutes of brain-numbing drone, snuffing out whatever remaining hope of redemption this album might have had.
Given Reed and Metallica’s history, that might be the point. Greg Kot, Chicago Tribune
