Round the time of Kylie’s appearance in The Delinquents, the film that featured the first shock-horror instance of the then soap opera poppet disrobing for the camera, a BBC DJ instigated the rather cruel Kylie Put Your Clothes Back On campaign.
Hard to credit that now, with the Mini-ogue derriere having achieved permanent tenure on the covers of the men’s mags. But now the circle has been squared: Body Language comes heralded by tabloid headlines proclaiming that the singer has bid goodbye to the hot pants and the lingerie line – for the new campaign she’s modelling a more demure but still smouldering look somewhere between Brigitte Bardot and Juliet Greco.
But then Kylie always understood the Darwinian pop rules of Mutate And Survive, endowed with the ability to self-transmute from hit-factory starlet to ironic‚ indie pin-up to beat-wise Barbie-rella to perky cigarette girl at the 21st century gay cabaret to green genie in Baz Luhrmann’s absinthe bottle. Then, the pièce de resistance, getting reborn in a womb of sci-fi light with the 2001 space odd-ditty ‘Can’t Get You Out Of My Head’.
She was always going to have her work cut out following that perfect merging of pop and art, a song invested with enough prismatic paradoxes to keep Paul Morley in theories over some 200 pages. And while her track record as a singles act over the last decade, from ‘Confide In Me’ to ‘Spinnin’ Around’, is impeccable, albums are not Kylie’s forte (although this listener will stick his hand up for at least two thirds of Impossible Princess, which failed through conflicting marketing strategies rather than quality control).
The latest single ‘Slow’ – number one at the time of writing – is another lipstick killer, all Moroder-y euro electro-arpeggios and Donna Summer sultriness, the sound of two androids having a long slow screw up against the wall of a Tokyo nightclub. It is, alas, the most mysterious and adventurous thing on this album. Elsewhere, she’s largely settled for “adult” (ie no fun) mid-tempo urban and r’n’b filla with a couple of slices of futuro-retro disco on the side.
The problem with Body Language is not that it’s a rush job, but the converse. Co-ordinated by Capitol’s A&R department and a team of producers that includes Ash Thomas and Curtis Mantronix, the material has been polished to within an inch of its life. Sure, all albums are designed by committee, but here it’s a case of too many cooks, not enough kooks.
All that said, there are at least a couple of tunes here that merit attention. ‘Red Blooded Woman’ sees Kylie make a pretty good fist of playing gangsta moll, somewhere between a soft-core Dre and a PG Irv Gotti. Hot on its heels, ‘Chocolate’ is a breathy take on the old serotonin sugar/sex analogy over a slinky backing track, while ‘Secret (Take You Home)’ is cheeky Dee-Lite meets Missy Elliot, bubbly and coquettish.
On balance though, Body Language is a fair to middling dance pop record that might go down easier if the listener wasn’t aware of how innovative and imaginative Kylie Minogue can be. Right now, she’s stuck halfway between Erotica and Evita, peddling PVC when we need fake leopardskin and warm leatherette.
Buy the single and file the rest under optional extras.