Shut Up Already, Sweetheart

When it's been years since your last album was released, and millions of fans the world over are eagerly awaiting your next move, it would make sense to wait to put out an album until you were sure you made a good one.

Unfortunately, Courtney Love seems to have neglected to check the quality of her latest album and first solo release, America's Sweetheart. Instead she's followed in the footsteps of Liz Phair, hiring several overly ambitious co-writers and producers in attempt to make herself into some sort of female Hollywood version of Kid Rock, complete with an airbrushed picture of her as a rock and roll angel on the cover of the album. Oh, and did I mention that the liner notes also include a fold-out poster of our heroine? This is real rock and roll here, kids. Don't be fooled by those other bands that concentrate on the music instead of the packaging.

Speaking of which, there seems to have been some sort of crazy last-minute rush on finishing this album, as a good portion of the lyrics printed in the liner notes are just not what Love is singing in the songs. There are whole verses gone, lines changed, and the rest of the time I'm not really sure what she's saying, but it doesn't seem to go along with what is on the pretty pink and white pages in front of me. Not that it matters so much, as most of the intelligible lyrics on this album are not exactly stellar. One of the most noteworthy lines is from "But Julian, I'm A Little Bit Older Than You," and goes "I see Paris/I see France/Oh, I can see your underpants/I see Paris/I see France/Oh, I hear London calling."

This is not to say that the album is a total waste. There are a few songs that could have stood on their own if they weren't on this album, including "Hold On To Me," "Uncool," and "Never Gonna Be the Same," all similar in that they are the mellower tracks on the album. It could be possible that it is only the respite from Love screaming inane lyrics over highly distorted guitars that makes them stand out in such a positive way. But they seem to be heartfelt, and at the very least do not involve mentions of pills or the phrase "shut up," which inexplicably occurs on at least three of the 12 tracks on this album.

One wonders if Love was entirely conscious for the making of this album. Between the terrible lyrics, the completely incoherent screeching on certain tracks (see the beginning of "Life Despite God"), all the references to drugs, and the fact that only one song is credited solely to her, it seems possible that she had very little idea of what was going on. Maybe it isn't fair to blame this album on her entirely.

Or so I thought, until I read the people she thanks in the liner notes. Aside from Larry Flynt, Paul McCartney and Plant/Page she also thanks "Kirstie Alley & the Church of Scientology." I think she might deserve the blame after all.