Battle of the blondes

Jessica Simpson, on the other hand, required no such double spin. A Baptist in the Britney Spears mold of popdom, Jessica, who received a silver chastity ring from her father when she was 12, was a public virgin until her (now defunct) marriage to Nick Lachey. (MTV, thankfully, excused us from viewing the bloody sheet after her wedding night.) This was the groundwork to launch a chirpy, production-dependent singing voice that falls somewhere between the range of early Paula Abdul and Malibu Barbie.

Jessica Simpson's music is as indistinguishable from other pop dance music as Hugh Hefner's blonde girlfriends are from each other. Her upcoming release, "Public Affair," multi-layers her condom-thin voice over proto-Madonna Jellybean Benitez-style riffs, and evokes the tinselly, cocaine-and-synthesizer snow-globe hyperproduction sound of the more repellent latter-day Stevie Wonder albums. "Fired Up" seems to be made for the Tokyo Drift crowd -- a lowrider-ready, bouncing Miami jam made for blacklight and blue Curaçao -- as catchy a hypoglycemic buzz as it is a forgettable headache.

Jessica, according to her father, "loves the heck out of" President Bush, and continues to thrive, despite her recent divorce and obvious lack of virginity.

Which brings us to Paris.

Paris Hilton's not-exactly-long-awaited singing debut has recently dropped like Israeli phosphorus on a skeptical media.

From the Clear Channel press release for her first single, "Stars Are Blind":
"Paris Hilton knows what's hot! That's why she chose Clear Channel Radio station Web sites over any other video music site to world premiere her never-before-seen, U.S. version of "Stars Are Blind." This is Clear Channel Radio's very first Video on Demand premiere and there is no other artist hotter than Paris to kick it off!" (Italics mine.)

What is nice about Paris Hilton is that there isn't anything nice about Paris Hilton. She's never been a virgin, and never claimed to have any kind of redeeming talent or value whatsoever beyond extreme wealth and an enviable shamelessness. Paris is much too successful a public disgrace to need administrative approval.

Yet everything Paris touches is so frankly commercial and perfectly liteweight as to be fashionably anorexic, and therefore attractive, in spirit.

In truth, Paris' album, "Paris," (out next week) doesn't suck half as much as it ought to -- it shoots really low and hits its big stupid target just fine. If, in order to win, all bowling balls merely needed to end up in the gutter, the Paris Hilton LP would be the equivalent of Queen's "We Are the Champions."

All the songs are pleasantly idiotic -- instant karaoke beach trash classics sung in a breathy Laahhhh laaahhhhh lollipop-in-Lolita baby voice, over a production that sounds like Disney's twin tweens Zach and Cody trying to get Pharrell feral over a copy of Garage Band.

One of the prettier songs, "Jealousy," while being an obvious "fuck you" to Nicole Richie, actually betrays ... dare I say ... a little bit of soul, even -- a perfectly unnecessary element, to be sure, but a nice bonus.

In truth, much of Hilton's music is wholly indistinguishable from Jessica Simpson's -- apart from lyrics that are more self-assuredly slutty (and the similarities may have more to do with producer Scott Storch than anything else -- he was behind both Hilton's and Simpson's records and -- it seems worth noting -- helped produced Xtina's "Stripped"). But, unlike the virtuous Simpson, Paris is a heady combination of pure guilt and catchy sick pleasures. Her music is a perfect Hentai anime porn soundtrack for a bunch of schoolgirls in knee socks getting raped by a cartoon octopus. The album ought to go over like gangbusters equally well in the dance holes of Ibiza, Poland or the Philippines.

If Hugh Hefner's girlfriends all became Ashlee Simpson and cranked out interchangeable clap-track claptrap for the sake of reclaimed Republican virgins everywhere, at least we'll always have Paris to lead us back into the gutter where pop truly belongs. Xtina may be reclaiming her dirrt, but Paris -- like the city of love -- has always been filthy. Let's hope her recently announced "year of celibacy" isn't due to anything more than boy-binge burnout -- sexual mendacity, after all, is best left to the politicians. We can only hope this healthy return to raunch isn't a mirage. Breasts, after all, are manufactured to be enjoyed, and rock star blondes are supposed to Have More Fun with them.

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