new album title, 鈥�143,鈥� is code for 鈥淚 love you,鈥� based on the number of letters in each word of the phrase. She may love us, but the album is more like 144 鈥� 鈥淚 made mush.鈥�
Perry's first LP since is just as lackluster, an 11-track blur of thick electronic programming and simplistic lyrics. There's none of her past cheeky humor, virtually no personality. Even the title is filler.
The rollout has been snakebit from the jump, with the artist under fire for collaborating with and the video for 鈥淲oman鈥檚 World鈥� emerging as a sloppy, puzzling attempt at satire. Then her video shoot on a Spanish beach for 鈥淟颈蹿别迟颈尘别蝉鈥� for potential environmental damage.
It doesn鈥檛 help that the first three singles are just OK. is a frothy Lady Gaga-esque arena pop anthem, the techno-stomper smacks of Calvin Harris from the 2010s and featuring Doechii, lazily lifts Crystal Waters鈥� 鈥淕ypsy Woman (She鈥檚 Homeless)鈥� from 1991. It鈥檚 a trio of tunes that doesn鈥檛 scream 578 (鈥淜aty's totally relevant鈥�).
鈥淕imme Gimme,鈥� featuring 21 Savage, just lacks bite, a nursery rhyme from a new mother masquerading as a pop song (with crib-adjacent lyrics like 鈥淪ay the right thing, maybe you can be/Crawling on me, like a centipede鈥�).
鈥淕orgeous鈥� with Kim Petras is marred by what sounds like a dog鈥檚 squeaky toy repeatedly going off in the mix, undercutting the notion of two women 鈥渃oming out tonight, grab your man and hold him tight.鈥� Squeak!
鈥淐rush鈥� isn鈥檛 bad, but it鈥檚 built on the repetitive, unyielding synths you鈥檇 find in Eastern European discos in the 鈥�90s. That鈥檚 a complaint for all the Dr. Luke tracks, really 鈥� Perry may rue their reunion simply based on the ugly, unsophisticated production. 鈥淎ll the Love鈥� has the phrase 鈥渂ack to me鈥� repeated 23 times during its 3:15 length.
鈥淢y intuition鈥檚 telling me things ain鈥檛 right,鈥� she sings on 鈥淭ruth,鈥� a lyric that may sum up her album and a song that includes a fake voicemail at the end. Other artists are incorporating real dialogue and recorded snippets of their lives. Perry is faking it.
She has always preferred gangs of songwriters, but 鈥�143鈥� pushes it to an insane level, with 鈥淣irvana鈥� credited to an even dozen. Listen to it and see if 12 songwriters were necessary for a song that sounds like a warmed-over club track from La Bouche.
If the best song on 鈥�143鈥� is 鈥淟ifetimes,鈥� the worst is easily the closer, a sticky-sweet, wide-eyed plea for innocence in 鈥淲onder,鈥� sticking out like a sore thumb. This is a cynical attempt to have moms in the audience wave their hands in unison as balloons float up, even as it decries cynicism.
鈥淥ne day when we're older/Will we still look up in wonder?鈥� she sings, name-checking her daughter, Daisy, who also makes a cute appearance. But by this point, she's lost our trust, with the 10 previous songs a sonic slog. 鈥�143鈥� has no soul or emotion; it's just a number.
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Mark Kennedy, The Associated Press
