In a Britney Spears biography published in Rolling Stone magazine this past February, journalist Vanessa Grigoriadis said of the then freshly infirmed starlet, “She was created as a virgin to be deflowered before us, for our amusement and titillation. She is not ashamed of her new persona — she wants us to know what we did to her.” Unfortunately, glaring back into the camera’s lens became her obsession, and ultimately, seeing Britney unplugged was a little too intense for anyone to handle.
Once more under the steadying hand of her groomers, the woman Paris Hilton called “The Animal” presents her comeback album, coyly titled Circus. Marketed on the strength of Brit-Brit’s infamy as much as her Promethean talents, Circus leans heavily on dozens (and dozens) of guest writers and producers to lend range and texture to what amounts to an otherwise insipid delivery on Britney’s part. Aside from the requisite radio-worthy poppers “Kill the Lights” and “Womanizer,” Circus will be remembered as a blatant attempt to move Britney’s beleaguered public image out of the clubs and back into the clubhouse.
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