omophagia's Full Review: Under My Skin by Avril Lavigne
Given the problems in having developed a public persona as the anti-Britney whose biggest radio hit happens to be a power-ballad, Avril Lavigne's music career simply lives or dies by the strength of her songs' hooks. As much as Lavigne has attempted to present herself as a would-be "punk" with equal disdain for both pop music and for her adopted musical heritage- mispronouncing David Bowie's name when announcing the Grammy nominees, denying the current relevance of The Sex Pistols in Entertainment Weekly- by the time her debut album, Let Go, had run its course, Lavigne's particular brand of AOR had actually become the pop mainstream. This laid the groundwork for an especially tricky set of demands for the recording of her follow-up album. How would Lavigne, whose music was so clearly the result of production team The Matrix's "studio magic," manage to maintain both her sk8ter-grrrl image without alienating her target demo, the Noggin kids who keep Degrassi on the air?
Under My Skin quickly makes it apparent that Lavigne didn't have an answer for that dilemma. In interviews, she's attempted to minimize the role The Matrix played in crafting the effective hooks on singles like "Complicated" and "I'm With You," and, on her follow-up, she tried to back up that claim and assert herself by replacing The Matrix with, among others, Canadian singer-songwriter Chantal Kreviazuk, best known in the U.S. for her cover of "Leavin' on a Jet Plane" that played over the television ads for Steven Spielberg's The Terminal. That Kreviazuk has only flirted with mainstream success is hardly an oversight- while she can emote with the best of her fellow Junior Varsity Lilith Fair performers, the majority of her songs are largely flat and anonymous. So it's no surprise that her contributions to Under My Skin are lifeless, lacking anything resembling an effective hook. Layers upon layers of vocal overdubs- which, of course, beg the stultifying non-question of how many shrieking Avrils are too many- and occasional 80s hair-metal inflections don't combine in a way that will allow Lavigne to change the sound of Top 40 radio as she previously had. If they did, The Darkness would be outselling Usher.
The production, then, leaves Lavigne to flounder in directionless, dull "rock" arrangements that suggest only that she's wearing more eyeliner and fewer ironic men's neckties these days. She's looking a little more like Amy Lee- and former Evanescence guitarist Ben Moody is another of Lavigne's collaborators here- in her promotional photos, but she's sounding a little more like Michelle Branch on most of her songs. Does that constitute artistic growth or out Lavigne as little more than a cipher whose general vacancy makes her good for the occasional moronic soundbite? Avril probably couldn't answer that question, but Under My Skin surely does.
What Lavigne failed to realize in recruiting her new cadre of producers is that she brings so little to the table herself. Her atonal, often shrill vocals and her bored-frosh-in-study-hall lyrics ("You gave me your kiss / It went something like this / It made me go oh-oh" from lead single "Don't Tell Me" is hardly the worst offender on the album. "He Wasn't," which sounds like a Yellowcard castoff, offers "There's not much going on today / I'm really bored. It's getting late," as an actual song lyric, rather than a halfassed text message.) aren't nearly so distracting when they're buried beneath undeniably catchy, spit-polished production. Armed with only her nearly permanent scowl, Lavigne's sophomore effort amounts to little more than a dare to her die-hard contingency to put up with her petulance. And that attitude isn't punk, it's self-indulgent and speaks to a certain contempt Lavigne has for her own audience.
If she's uncomfortable having become pop's momentary it-girl, that's both understandable and a perfectly forgivable offense. If she were the artist she insists she is, however, Lavigne would've found a way to use that discomfort to make perhaps a single interesting statement on Under My Skin. Consider the sophomore album released by Avril's nearest career predecessor, Alanis Morissette. Sure, her Supposed Former Infatuation Junkie was self-indulgent, clocking in at a bloated 70 minutes and marked by Morissette's tendency to eschew conventional metric structures to fit her own growingly idiosyncratic syntax, but that album conveyed a clear sense of artistic identity borne out of her unexpected success. Lavigne, on the other hand, has utterly failed in her effort to clarify an already muddled identity with Under My Skin. By pouting and navel-gazing, she's succeeded only in making herself even more of a nuisance.
Album Specs: Under My Skin, Avril Lavigne.
Arista Records, ARI59774.
5/25/2004.
Epinions.com periodically updates pricing and product information from third-party sources, so some information may be slightly out-of-date. You should confirm all information before relying on it.
- Add to My Yahoo!: 
- Add to Google Homepage: 
© 1999-2009 Shopping.com, Inc.