Northern Star

From the time cracks first began appearing in the Spice Girls' foundation, Mel C was fingered as the one most likely to survive the hype; the girl with the tonsils, the 'tude and the talent. That may still hold, but unfortunately, on her debut outing, she's failed to channel those attributes into one coherent direction.

Too many kooks soil the wrath - Northern Star's sleeve notes read like a litany of A-list producers and engineers. This alone needn't spell trouble, especially when the names include William Orbit, Pat McCarthy, Marius De Fries and Rick Rubin. The problem is that these pan-pot jocks have stamped their ID cards all too clearly on the work, disrupting any sense of continuity.

To wit, one minute Mel's Madonna, the next a sports-metal mallrat, then she's wallowing in Garbage. Indeed, 'Go' and 'Ga Ga' mimic the latter act right down to Butch Vig's metronomic (im)pulses and Duke Erikson's overdub artistry; the title tune is a frail Ray Of Light-lite confessional; 'Goin' Down' is drenched in industrial sludge and 'Suddenly Monday' is me-old-mucker music hall (with an admittedly peachy chorus).

Like Geri's aptly named Schizophonic, this debut spends most of its 53 minutes loitering in the popmart, trying on all manner of contrasting styles for size, never settling on one. For an opening salvo, it often dissipates like buckshot.

That's the music. In terms of lyrical content, the singer fares no better. The old victim-of-success riff has been played out many times before, to greater (George Michael, Madonna) and lesser (Gary Barlow, Robbie) effect than Mel C manages here on the title tune ("They build you up so they can tear you down/Trust the ocean you'll never drown/Who's next?/Who's gonna steal your crown?/You'll see/I have learned my lesson well"). But at the end of '99, listening to pop stars griping about the consequences of celebrity is akin to being stuck on the wrong end of a helpline for Lotto winners plagued with begging letters.

And speaking of poverty, 'If That Were Me' is undoubtedly a well-meant variation on the "there but for the grace o' God" routine ("A spare bit of change is all that I give/How is that gonna help when you've got nowhere to live?/Some turn away so they don't see/I bet you'd look if that were me/ . . . I couldn't live without my phone/But you don't even have a home"), but is expressed so awkwardly, you can't help but think of Sting or Phil Collins rather than Shane's 'The Old Main Drag'.

Accordingly, Northern Star is as polished and professional as you like, but carries the scent of a debutante playing dilettante. Maybe next time.