Pop music is indeed the sluttiest music. On Madonna’s latest, Confessions on a Dance Floor, the constantly changing pop chameleon switches outfits once again, this time shorter, dancier, and much more revealing. When this unsuspecting reviewer viewed the cover art from his computer, (sorry, LP dorks, I use iTunes) he blithely witnessed Madonna spread-eagled in Spandex, stretching her body into 40 different versions of the splits.

Now that I’ve stopped touching my erogenous zones, I can start this review. Once again, Madonna has outwitted the shit-talkers and held on to her job security. Confessions is classic ABBA tramp-pop, and I’m completely and utterly hung up on it. The first 30 seconds of “Get Together” sound like a Real McCoy B-side, or the unreleased demon spawn of La Bouche. Madonna asks her market demographic, “Do you believe we can change the future?” This is a possibility. But we need to forget about the past first. And we definitely need to forget about those disco synthesizers in the background.

By now, all of us have heard “Hung Up,” the first single. It’s amazing. It’s mind-numbing. It should be frozen in a capsule and sent out into space. Martians need to know the wonders of our civilization, as expressed in the delicate form of bubblegum pop.

Other songs aspire to brilliance, sometimes hitting and sometimes missing the mark. “Forbidden Love” has a robot voice, so it obviously kicks ass. “I Love New York” is OK, but you know you’re too wealthy when you’re singing, “Los Angeles is for people who sleep.” The production shines on “Future Lovers,” magnificently arranged by Stuart Price. When Madonna sings, “This is not a coincidence,” you have to agree with her. For pop music to survive, it must consciously and consistently recreate itself. Like any successful artist, Madonna knows that business savvy is a beautiful thing. Ironic, isn’t it?

It’s quite easy to brush Madonna off as a media mogul. Some of her albums suck, while others are influenced by unnecessary New Age crap. But the woman is a legend, and legends are allowed to bask in their own egos. Did anyone dislike “Material Girl?” That song was so “Sex and the City.” Thanks for getting back to your disco roots, Madonna. Just avoid the Kabbalism at all costs.
[It’s ABBA Matt Cappiello. ABBA!]