KEY POINTS:
Rating: * * *
So here's the concept behind Beyonce's third solo album, I am... Sasha Fierce, a collection of 11 songs split between two CDs. The first disc I am... is the real Beyonce, stripped bare.
Aside from the assault of publicity spinning this line, we know this from the cover art, which shows a fresh faced B, pulling her hair back in an unposed (by her standards) close-up.
The second disc, Sasha Fierce, is by her alter-ego and stage persona of the same name. A character contrived to be vampy, provocative and altogether a bit mad.
It's curious that she includes Tyra Banks favourite catch cry "fierce" in her stage name, as the album's artwork largely resembles a bad America's Next Top Model photo shoot. In one picture, Sasha Fierce wears a corset designed from the front panel of a motorcycle, complete with wing mirrors and handlebars.
It's a failed attempt at the avant garde - and an apt reflection of the album itself.
After opening the first disc with the mildly catchy If I Were a Boy, it quickly deteriorates into a series of beautifully sung, but mind-numbingly dull ballads, which only deviates from broken-hearted lyrics to venture into the pseudo-religious on Ave Maria.
It's a weak follow-up to the energetic club jams of Dangerously in Love and B'Day - the type of sap Mariah once dished out before even she got sick of it.
As the second disc opens with the catchy, handclapped rhythm of Single Ladies, relief sweeps through listeners as Sasha Fierce takes over. But it's only temporary.
Devoid of any real melodies and full of sonic bleeps, the second disc is an experimental journey into clubland electronica, which might work were it by anyone other than Beyonce.
Following on from the weepy wail of the first disc - which features songs written by Leona Lewis' songwriter Ryan Tedder and the woman responsible for James Blunt's You're Beautiful - Beyonce lacks the credibility to pull off the futuristic sounds.
The tinny beat and staccato bounce of Diva would be a perfect fit for Missy Elliot or Kelis, but becomes strangely irritating when belted out by Miss B. Likewise, the repetitive groan of Video Phone might have worked better in Rihanna's lilting Barbadian drawl.
That said, the second disc is by far and away the better offering of this conflicting collection, revealing that there is a reason why some artists adopt stage personas to begin with. Because they just aren't that interesting.
Joanna Hunkin
