Album Review: The Truth About Love by P!nk

Pink doesn't sing songs. She mauls them, gobbling the microphone like a hyena that hasn't eaten in a week. At her best, she is pop's most galvanizing tough broad, but her sixth LP devolves into self parody. Co-written with studio aces like Max Martin and Greg Kurstin, it delivers power-chord packed electro-pop, and the lyrics cover the usual subjects: self-reliance, sex, rebellion.

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Pink may be the best lyricist in pop music. And that’s not just because she’s willing to be as tough on herself as she is on the clueless authority figures, one-night stands, and wrongheaded husbands who inhabit her songs. Instead of playacting the expected pop archetypes — brat, vixen, victim — she presents herself as, well, herself: a knockabout girl who has done some living, not a precocious cipher playing a well-rehearsed role.

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A lot has happened to P!nk since the release of her 2008 breakup album, Funhouse, most notably a reconciliation with her estranged husband, Carey Hart, and subsequent birth of their child in 2011. P!nk wrestles with these two life-changing events and many other thorny issues on her 2012 album, The Truth About Love, a vibrant mess of a record that finds the pop star embracing every one of her contradictions. Alone among the class of 2000 -- a group that roughly includes such other new millennium stars as Britney Spears, Christina Aguilera, Mandy Moore, and Jessica Simpson -- P!nk comes across as an actual adult, eager to dive into the muck of grown-up emotions, expanding and deepening her music without succumbing to stuffy pretension.

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Four years after Funhouse she’s back: breaking down barriers, shifting paradigms, getting cusswords onto the adult contemporary charts like she’s Cee-Lo or something, putting empty ketchup bottles back in the fridge, and basically leering at anyone who finds her leering annoying. Because make no mistake—P!nk is incredibly annoying. Not only do you have to grope for the exclamation point whenever you type her name (which, OK, I’m a Ke$ha fan so that comes with practice), you have to listen to her lyrics, the most abrasive radio lyrics outside that Owl City kid singing about his candy-coated flying alligators.

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Pink has always fancied herself a punk, but the only time it’s ever really successfully translated to her music is on 2003’s underappreciated Try This, and her almost religious adherence to formula since that album’s relative failure is the complete antithesis of what it means to be “punk. ” Though The Truth About Love marks Pink’s first collaboration with producer Greg Kurstin, who’s at the helm for a sizeable chunk of the album, she hasn’t changed her tune much. All 4/4 stomp, raucous attitude, and pop-punk hooks, the album’s lead single, the catchy, cheekily titled “Blow Me (One Last Kiss),” sounds like it popped off the same conveyor belt as the singer’s myriad Max Martin-assisted hits.

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Jessica Simpson’s worst nightmare has come true — again: Pink and Eminem have rejoined forces. Two years ago, the pop underdog paid the Detroit rapper a visit on Recovery‘s “Won’t Back Down” and now he returns the favor — ever so briefly – on “Here Comes The Weekend”, from Pink’s defiant sixth album, The Truth About Love. Amazingly, Simpson dodged the bullet.

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Behind all the trademark attitudinal sass, Pink has a prodigious voice, and she's a lot more tolerable when she calms down and sings up. Her sixth studio album veers between two modes: workmanlike ballads delivered with beyond-workmanlike shading; and chunky guitar pop stuffed with shouty, bad-girl choruses. Unfortunately the second dominates, and includes Slut Like You (with a riff to make Kurt Cobain shudder in his grave) and Here Comes the Weekend, a dumb, martial stomp that seems designed to make anyone over the age of 13 feel prematurely curmudgeonly.

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Behind all the trademark attitudinal sass, Pink has a prodigious voice, and she's a lot more tolerable when she calms down and sings up. Her sixth studio album veers between two modes: workmanlike ballads delivered with beyond-workmanlike shading; and chunky guitar pop stuffed with shouty, bad-girl choruses. Unfortunately the second dominates, and includes Slut Like You (with a riff to make Kurt Cobain shudder in his grave) and Here Comes the Weekend, a dumb, martial stomp that seems designed to make anyone over the age of 13 feel prematurely curmudgeonly.

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Thanks to powerful pipes, an unabashed willingness — eagerness, even — to expose her most raw emotions, and savvy collaborations, P?ink has enjoyed an impressively durable career in a fickle pop music market. On her sixth album, “The Truth About Love,” the singer-songwriter born Alecia Moore continues her winning ways. New and returning collaborators such as Butch Walker, Max Martin, Dan Wilson, and Greg Kurstin help Pink combine rock muscle, pop froth, and expressions both heartfelt and petulant.

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PINK “The Truth About Love” (RCA). Big, blatant, halogen-bright pop songs are Pink’s chosen calling. No matter how her tracks begin — with a whisper or a blast — the choruses await arena shout-alongs. But the words she puts in those neat pop packages can be unruly and conflicted..

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