Marilyn Vos Savant may have the highest recorded I.Q. in the world, but she's probably terrible in the sack. And to make things worse, she squanders her talents by writing in Parade Magazine. (Look for her supreme intellect tucked behind the "Howard Huge" cartoons.) Obviously, intellect has little correlation to relevance. Which is why Momus, despite all his intents and concepts, just isn't very listenable. As an artist and satirist, Momus constantly drifts through phases, masks, and costumes. But as a musician, his music remains mired in the realm of Casio-composed chintz pop.
The story behind Stars Forever is that Momus found himself in a costly legal situation thanks to a song off his last record. Said song retold the tale of transsexual synth-composer Wendy (formerly Walter) Carlos. Momus found himself in a small financial hole. Light bulbs went off above his eyepatch-wearing head: if you had about $1000 sitting around, Momus would pen a witty ditty just for you, your company, or your hipster collective. It sounds like a great idea. Unfortunately, it doesn't sound like a great album.
A cloud of irrelevance and judicial waste hovers over the entire two-disc project-- two quirky pop artists bickering on the fringe of cultural significance. After all, isn't it a bit sad that a perverted keyboard bard who writes toe-tappers about "cumming in a girl's mouth" is being sued by a trans-gendered, avant-new-age synthesizer freak who sauces vocoded bits like "We are in hell" over Moog belches? God bless America/ Britain/ Japan.
Another unfortunate element in the entire affair is just who shoveled up the paper to have their story in song. Some hipper- than- thou (and apparently, more- able- to- waste- a- grand- than- thou) indie rock figures have chipped in for skeptical reasons. Girlie Action, the New York public relations firm that hypes Momus' albums (among others), makes for perfect Momus fodder on their name alone. But they're a P.R. company! What do you think their motive is?
Likewise, Chicago's Reckless Records represents. Reckless, a store where you likely can't find this record due to their disorganization, disregard to customer service, and general disinterest, tries to glaze up their indie cred with a song on an art-pop record. Really, how interesting will a song about a record store actually be? Other cult figures, such as Cornelius and cartoonist Jeff Koons pop up, too. But their stories just aren't as interesting as the fictional characters Momus has conjured in the past. Plus, just the general air of "underground artist" back-patting feels distancing. The problem here is that Momus is too rarely willing to turn on his contributors and take his typical satirical bite. Instead we get fluffy odes.
Momus' greatest flaw, though, will continue to be his disrespect for pop music. His bare, robotic compositions offer few musical treats. Which is, apparantly, his point. But Momus mocks the very vehicle used to deliver his message. Thus, Momus is like the obese, filthy, sick doctor; the car mechanic in the run-down AMC Rambler; Frank Gehry with Lincoln Logs; or the sculptor with Play-Doh. Oh, and it's 39 songs of this.
