Paris Hilton – Paris Review

Website: Paris Hilton

The Inside Pulse:
Ahhh, Paris Hilton. If you don’t know the name, congratulations! You’ve been living in a box for the last couple of years. Socialite heiress, reality show star, and night-vision sex tape goddess extraordinaire, Paris Hilton is looking to add “singer” to her list of accomplishments. Paris seems to have been written for her (with her help, of course) to play completely on the “fake” public image she has created on “The Simple Life” as a ditzy bimbo slut. For those heading to the dance floor, this isn’t really any different than the majority of radio-ready pop already ripping up the charts, so it surprisingly blends in with its surroundings like any other Ashley, Jessica, Lindsay, or Hilary offering.

Positives: Catchy? Sure. Paris is catchy dance-pop. Actually, it’s frighteningly good dance-pop thanks to Paris hiring the best help money can buy. Venturing into tidbits of different styles including reggae and rock, there’s enough variety to keep the album from turning into one monotonous and forgettable lump of boredom. Hilton’s producer also did an admirable job improving her weak, thin voice by tripling, reverbing, and burying it whenever possible. Still, it’s an anonymous-sounding record; the only peek into Paris might be “Jealousy,” which seems to be a shot at Nicole Richie.

Negatives: Condensed from twelve paragraphs, I’ll try to keep this as simple and blunt as I can. Paris can’t sing. She coos and breathes with a range barely spanning an octave. When she does put muscle behind her voice, it’s covered in layers to the point where there’s no doubt that nothing good comes of Paris’s unproduced voice. This is embarrassingly obvious in her cover of “Do You Think I’m Sexy” as she clearly struggles to match Rod’s leaps in notes. Aside from singing about how hot she is and how everyone wants to be her, there’s very little on the album to distinguish Paris from anything else. Rather than debunk all of the assumption that she’s a shallow whore, it’s nothing but a throwaway record created by her producers to further convince herself she’s the next Marilyn Monroe.

Cross-breed: Firecrotch does a jig with the divorcee with the giant rack and Lizzie McGuire, sung by a class of second grade girls.

Reason to Buy: You could care less about music quality as long as “it has a good beat and you can dance to it.”