Awkward and alluring in equal measures, 's 2004 solo debut, , did its job: it made a bigger star on her own than she was as the lead singer of . With that established and her long-desired wish for a baby finally fulfilled, there was no rush for to get back to her regular gig, so she made another solo album, , which expanded on what really sold her debut: her tenuous connections to Californian club culture. There was always a sense of artifice behind the turn-of-the-century makeover that brought from a sweetheart to a queen, but that doesn't mean it didn't work at least on occasion, most spectacularly so on the gloriously dumb marching-band of the production that turned into a blockbuster. There, as on her duet with on made the transition into a modern-day material girl with ease, but when she tried to shoehorn this ghetto-fabulous persona into her original girl character, it felt forced, nowhere more so than on the written and produced doesn't make that mistake again on -- by and large, she keeps these two sides of her personality separate, favoring the streets and nightclubs to the comfort of her home. Just because she wants to run in the streets doesn't mean she belongs there; she continues to sound far more comfortable mining , as only a child of the '80s could. As always, it's those celebrations of cool synths and stylish hooks that work the best for , whether she's approximating the chilliness of early- mashing and or lying back on the coolly sensual Only once on the album is she able to bring this style and popcraft to a heavy track, and that's on the irresistible -produced title track, driven by a giddy "wee-oh!" hook and supported by a nearly anthemic summertime chorus. Tellingly, , the architects of her best cuts on , did not produce this track, but they do have a huge presence on , helming five of the 12 songs, all but one being tracks that weigh down the album considerably. The exception is a light and nifty evocation of mid-period , with its lilting melody, silken harmonies, and pizzicato strings. It sounds effortless and effervescent, two words that do not apply to their other four productions, all skeletal, rhythm-heavy tracks that fail to click. Sometimes, they're merely leaden, as on the stumbling autobiographical ; sometimes, they're cloying and crass, as on the rather embarrassing ; sometimes they have an interesting idea executed poorly, as on a breakup song built on a dying cell phone metaphor that's interesting in theory but its stuttering, static rhythms and repetitive chorus are irritating in practice. Also interesting in theory is the truly bizarre lead single, where force fanfares and samples from 's into one of their typical minimalist tracks, over which spouts off clumsy material-minded lyrics touting her fashion line and her shape. Nothing in this track really works, but it's hard not to listen to it in wonder, since its unwieldy rhythms and rhymes capture everything that's currently wrong about . From the stilted production to the fashion fetish, all the way down to her decision to on far too much of the album, all the here seems like a pose, creating the impression that she's a glamour girl slumming on a weekend night -- something that her self-proclaimed in "coke whore" makeover showcased on the album's cover doesn't do much to dissuade. If the production on were better, these hipster affectations would be easier to forgive, but they're not: they're canned and bland, which only accentuates 's stiffness. These misfires are so grand they overshadow the many good moments on , which are invariably those songs that stay true to her long-standing love of (not coincidentally, these include every production from her bandmate ). These are the moments that give its sweetness, and while they may require a little effort to dig out, they're worth the effort, since it proves that beneath the layers of bling, remains the SoCal sweetheart that has always been as spunky and likeable as she has been sexy. ~ Stephen Thomas Erlewine