REVIEW: {Bi-on-ic} By Christina Aguilera

(Sony)

3 out of 5

Ah Christina. It must be hard to have the well-earned title of skankiest pop chick stolen from you while you were away busily making little Aguileras. All these young hussies like Gaga, Perry and Rihanna rocking in and stealing your STD-encrusted crown while you’re waiting for your ladybits (or ‘Woohoo’ as you call it), to heal from your baby-making session. Your Greatest Hits album had the world wondering if you were breaking up? Maybe you couldn’t hold it together any longer? But you knew you could rebuild this, you had the latexology. You have the hoe-ability to wear the world’s smallest outfits. You can be sluttier than you were before. Sluttier, dirtier, naughtier. Oh and having the likes of M.I.A., Le Tigre and Santigold as your Oscar Goldman was a million dollar move. Now, I’ve always been a fan of all things Bionic, but I have to say I’m a little disturbed to hear you say your child inspired your latest album, especially after listening to you sing lines like, “You know you wanna put your lips where my hips are / Kiss on my woohoo, all over my woohoo / All the boys think it’s cake when they taste my woohoo / You don’t even need a plate just your face ha woohoo.” And the not-so-subtle imagery inside your artwork will probably deny quite a few microscopic swimmers their crack at an egg. Mind you, if most of the lyrics here are anything to go by, we all know how Mr Aguilera’s swimmers got their crack. Just check out the sexually charged ‘Desnudate’ where Xtina flips between English and Spanish, moaning, “My domain is shame free so lose your fear / Nothing’s too much or too little, too soft or severe”. The theme continues with the equal parts saucy and silly slow jam ‘Sex For Breakfast’. But then proceedings take an unusual turn. Just when you think Christina has finally made her electro-flavoured sex-driven concept album, she goes and screws you up mid-stroke with one of those awful Linda Perry power ballads. And the next few songs stay in bland, I mean ballad mode, feeling far from the album’s imagery and concept. It’s like Christina got nervous about the direction and started making a whole other record. Then ‘I Hate Boys’ turns up and the peroxided one flips the script again with a couple of dated sounding feminist anthems. Thankfully things come full circle with the hedonistic fun of ‘Vanity’ - and the ode to dumb girls, ‘Bobblehead’, is so silly it almost works. I’m not sure if ‘Bionic’ best sums up this inconsistent offering. I think schizophrenic would have been more apt.

Review by Matt Ruys.