The Automatik

Virgin Records America, 2004

It would be impossible to attempt to write a review of Courtney Love’s new album without having, even in the back of one’s mind, at least a few preconceived notions. After all, we’ve all seen or heard several years’ worth of crazy stories about her antics. I’ve always been a tremendous Courtney supporter, even when she did things that defied logic. But I wanted to leave out a lot of the personal drama when listening to this album.

It wasn’t easy. America’s Sweetheart is no Celebrity Skin. It’s not the Fleetwood Mac-esque elegy to the dangerous beauty of Southern California. But it’s not the punk rock feminism of the Riot Grrls, either. The music is studio pristine and at times so glossy you can see your own reflection in it. Then there’s Love’s voice.

Not having heard her singing for a few years, it’s jarring to hear how down and dirty ragged it is; although she’s never been known for possessing dulcet tones, there are a few places (“All the Drugs” and “Life Without God”) where she sounds like a raving lunatic who recorded her vocals completely separately from the music in another studio. On another planet. This is where it proves difficult to escape the images of a wild-haired, wild-eyed, swollen-lipped Love, looking like she’s been to Hell, but hasn’t completely left it behind. She apparently likes the drugs, but they don’t seem to like her very much.

Lyrically, there are a lot of references to love, sex, burning, drowning, and God, which are the continuing themes in Love’s repertoire, and which only seem fitting since she’s been publicly castigated as a self-aggrandizing witch for at least ten years. Considering this, a line like Hey God, you owe me one more song/So that I can prove to them that I’m so much better than him (from “Mono”) shouldn’t astonish, but it does. Without mentioning the K word, it does prove that Love is still not only unafraid to wave her dirty laundry in our faces, but gets off on it.

It’s exactly what I’ve always admired about her, her ability to say whatever the hell she’s thinking no matter how goofy, obnoxious, inappropriate, or truthful. That’s what makes this album a hell of a lot better and more entertaining than the mostly-boring Celebrity Skin. But there are flaws. The warmed-over Stone Temple Pilots guitar riff of “All the Drugs” doesn’t work as well as it should and the confessional lyrics stumble when they should shock. “Life Despite God,” despite its rocky beginning, is powerful and affecting (All my love’s in vain/I cannot find a vein), but I think that instead of relying on power chords, songs like these would be better served with some sultry saxophone or acoustic guitar, and I’d like to see Love explore some different musical territory because I think it would work better.

There’s no question that Love can still be majestic and fragile, as proven by melancholy tunes like “Sunset Strip,” “Uncool,” and “Never Gonna Be the Same” which are so beautifully raw, it’s almost like reading someone’s diary. She also proves she can still kick ass with “Mono,” “I’ll Do Anything,” and the undeniably awesome “Hello.” And she shows that sense of humor and pop-culture sensibility we know quite well with the almost Jim Carroll-esque “But Julian, I’m a Little Bit Older Than You” and the purposely misspelled “The Zeplin Song.”

America’s Sweetheart may have a deliriously ironic title, but it’s not just a sound bite; it’s a fine album. It should be heard and it should be appreciated (if not adored) and it makes me sad to think that with all of her legal battles and drug struggles, it might be completely ignored or worse, judged to be crap before anyone even gives it a chance. No matter what you think of Courtney Love, she is nothing if not herself, no matter how outlandish that self may seem to be. She will not go down without a fight, and I for one am rooting for her.