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Poor thing. She was once a precociously talented wild child, intent on pleasing herself and just bustin' to let it all out. Then things went all mega successful. She had a bit of a thing with Sean Penn on the way to selling millions of her debut album. Was even the best selling poet in America in 1999. And now, she lives in lovey dovey splendour with hunk of a beau - rodeo star Ty Murray. Yes, in classic George Best style - hey Jewel, where did it all go wrong?!...
Churlish? Not really. This is a horrible album. A right stinker. Slick, vapid, soulless, pompous and twee. Sure, there is no denying the crystal beauty in her voice, but it no longer sounds like she knows what she's singing about, let alone cares. And musically, it is cold to the touch. Producer Dann Huff's credits range from Megadeth to Faith Hill. Which in itself tells a story. All bases are covered, from sweet radio friendly (and ripe for video) pop, to Joplinesque rock and Nashville country. There's off-the-shelf guitar licks, simpering vocals, even a bit of Eastern exotica (thanks Madonna). Pounding choruses. Meaningless sincerity. Epic nonsense. A cartoon doll. Malibu Stacey come to life.
Ross Fortune
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