At this point, hating Britney Spears is not only a waste of time, but characterizes as you something along the lines of a heartless excuse for a human being. After all the girl—or woman, as I suppose we should henceforth refer to her—has been through, it’s impossible not to root for her to get something right, and what better than an album? As one other critic noted, it’s tempting to allow our sympathy to color our intake of the record, and perhaps prevent us from being as harsh as we should. But seeing as Blackout is—at least in some halfhearted sense—Britney’s answer to her image, it seems appropriate to extend to her a little understanding.

Britney Spears
Blackout
Rating: 6.1/10
Jive Records, 2007

So forget the withering observation that she’s become a spectre on her own album, meaning that her voice isn’t the weight-carrying center-piece of these songs. She’s always been a B-minus singer and, like Rihanna, sounds best when she doesn’t sound quite like herself. Thom Yorke’s been doing it for years in the depressing art-rock world, so why can’t it be done with equal effectiveness in the fun pop world? The only weight that criticism has is the record’s overall lack of Britney’s personality: it’s produced to death and sounds great, but Britney doesn’t own these songs in, say, the way Missy Elliot or Kelis (or even Fergie) own an album. She’s not as shameless a self-promoter and, like her muted performance at the VMAs, doesn’t quite seem to have showing off still in her. Nevertheless, her record is a roundly rewarding listen on its musical merits, and will (thank God, finally) displace Fergie as America’s most ubiquitous female artist.

The much-discussed “Gimme More” preceded the album to positive but hardly astounded reviews, before it took a tough hit for being the lip-synched soundtrack to Britney’s (somewhat overly hyped) onstage comeback flop. It’s a little too tepid to be the next “Toxic,” but only it’s boring verses prevent it from earning five-star marks. And with the sugary chorus that snakes around synthy poles, it’s going to get nearly that many from anyone who encounters it in the correct context, namely one where the only light is from a disco ball. The same goes for “Break the Ice,” a more indulgent rip-off of Nelly Furtado’s “Say it Right,” where Britney sounds delicately feminine and almost disturbingly catchy.

There is definitely a Timbaland-lite vibe, but it’s nowhere to be found in the album’s stunning best track, “Piece of Me.” The cattily worded kiss-off finds Britney raiding a barnyard (I defy you to prove that those aren’t robotic chickens), goose-stepping to a chain-clink beat in her stripper heels and pausing intermittently to purr into the battered, dusty oscillating fan mounted on the wall (video possibilities = endless). As it attempts to be both a self-deprecating apology (“I’m Mrs. most likely get on TV for stripping on the street while getting the groceries”) and a one-fingered salute (“I’m Mrs. Extra! Extra! This just in! / I’m Mrs. She’s too big now she’s too thin”), it only halfway achieves as a show of personality. But Britney’s voice is the production, and, these days, that’s how it should be.

“Piece of Me” is unmatched in production, but there’s plenty of other delicious stuff here: “Freakshow” matches its kinky theme with oddball rhythms—hand-claps, bass whoops, glassy keys—and tumbling, entangled vocal lines. “Toy Soldier” has possibly the most incredible beat on the record, a synthy pulsation that occasionally breaks down into army-band/drumline rhythms. It hands out a smattering of deja vus—thematically to Destiny’s Child’s “Soldier,” vocally to Missy’s “Lose Control,” and nasally to Gwen Stefani in general. “Ooh Ooh Baby” sounds the most like teenage Britney, but coyly holds up a pseudo-multicultural facade (smooth Latin guitar riffs punctuated by bursts of French accordion) in front of its stick-in-your-head melody. In what’s essentially a duet with Danja, “Get Naked (I’ve Got A Plan)” is Justin Timberlake-style weird, with bouyant little electronic melodies winding through the synth washes.

And like the arm-flailing into which her dancing has devolved, the record has its half-baked, filler moments. “Hot As Ice” tries some Southern soul, but spews a stupid “cold as fire/hot as ice” idea along the tracks of its clunky, droll beat. The breathing (Britney’s and presumably the entire gaggle of backup vocalists who appear throughout the record) is so heavy on “The Perfect Lover,” that it’s difficult to be sure if it’s actually a song. Also, “Radar” gets points for sheer annoyance factor, being much more intellectually offensive than anything on The Dutchess.

It’s inconsistent and occasionally suffers from too much piling on, but, for the intellectual experience that it’s not, Blackout is a respectable ode to the senses. As a critical exercise, it’s got way too much bland filler. But is that the point? Whoever said body-controlling dance music was supposed to excite the mind?