KeshaHundreds of years ago, in 2010, when Ke$ha (that's Kesha Rose Sebert) first crawled like a reptile out of the primordial ooze of vodka cruiser and glitter, nobody really thought the gorgonic Girl Power 2.0 pop-tart behind Tik-Tok would last more than six months. Warrior, Ke$ha album #2, disagrees. “Now this is our time/our generation/and we're impatient/animals, you ready to fight?” says Ke$ha in the album's eponymous opener. If these lyrics were written and sung by some naive early-teen YouTube mangler, the internet would hunt her down and destroy her (e.g. Rebecca Black).
But Ke$ha is grosser and smarter (or at least more self-aware) than Katy Perry or Rihanna; an apex predator of media management. Tracks like C'Mon and Supernatural methodically replicate the simple blasts of Dr Luke-patented synthesiser and major chord tension/resolution that gave Animals its longevity in the first place. Warrior's first single, Die Young, released back in September, has already received enough exposure; it's irritating and platitudinous, but at least a little more nihilistic than K Perry's inconsequential dribble.
Warrior is a functional popular music record because the 25-year-old's 'where's your dick at?' public persona is so viscous and malleable any predictable or sanctimonious assault on the grounds of 'ruining popular music' is assimilated with a press release and a loud slurping noise. Ke$ha's collaboration with Iggy Pop, Dirty Love, is a stroke of tactical genius. Dirty Love would slot comfortably into the crummier end of the now-leathery Pop's perennial Greatest Hits re-release. “Hey, it's Iggy Pop” squeals Ke$ha, and nobody should be upset or offended. It's LCD music for sticky dancefloors, and if someone's got to make it at least Ke$ha can keep it self-aware.
