England's Texas sculpts studio-perfect summer radio pop. Carbonated drumbeats provide a smooth, soft, cocoa-buttery surface like a well tanned midriff. It spreads out between a tight cotton tee and a pair of skin-squeezing jeans with the top few buttons haphazardly loose, allowing singer/pin-up Sharleen Spiteri's voice to dance across it like the brushing of delicately painted fingernails around the navel and upper pubis. A deep, discotheque bassline fills the sound nicely like two handfuls of pillowy, grade-A breast inflating the top of a red tanktop. A six-figure studio budget paints a shimmer over the sound like an iced- tea- colored tan, grains of fine, white sand, and tongue- tip- sized beads of sweat. Spiteri's seductive falsetto slips effortlessly between post-coital, bangs- in- face tease and professional puckered, glossy, slightly-separated lips like a Revlon commercial- tailored blend of Natalie Imbruglia, Prince, Donna Summer, Everything But the Girl, and a sultry Suede.
"Summer Son" bounces along like two-toned buttocks frollicking under a silk skirt, while the title track slowjams erotically like Spiteri rubbing down her body with her eyes closed, lips blooming to reveal marble teeth and a sentient tongue. Well, no. Really, there's more to this "music" than the singer's looks. Really. Stop looking at that. She's out of our league. Give me that back. I want the artwork!
