A multi-award-winning experience of what it’s like to live in constant fear, from rookie Hungarian director László Nemes
[a]Music[/a] is a bionic record...
Yet, musically, this album sees her pull a fantastic Howard Hughes trick. Vocodered, stretched, distorted, warped, deliberately upstaged by beats so showy they belong in a strip joint - quite simply, she's almost managed to make herself disappear. That bluntly explicit title isn't just pointless irony. This record is about the music, not Madonna; about the sounds, not the image.
) yet saved from tweeness by the electronic swish of a thousand giant photocopiers; 'Nobody's Perfect' is a lopsided stumble that could almost be Broadcast in its chill whispering, while 'Don't Tell Me' is alt-alt-country, hacked-up acoustic guitar over knife-sharp beats, Sheryl Crow if she wasn't such a spiritual hash-slinger.
Best of all is 'Paradise (Not For Me)', an improbable cross between The Creatures' bamboo percussion and The Jungle Book's 'Trust In Me'. With her cracked French whisper, Madonna sounds like an old drag queen recalling her glory days in a Montmartre bar. It's Gallic camp of the highest order, and proof that Madonna knows the score.
So, yes, thank you, you do like her acid rock. It's not that, as cynics suggest, her discovery of dance music was the equivalent of a jaded millionaire's rejuvenating lamb foetus injections at a Swiss sanatorium; rather, her contributions splice precious pedigree pop cells into raw new matter. 'Music' is a bionic record, a triumph of advanced mechanics and the faultless design of a consummate superstar. Only now, the act is vanishing.
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