Sticky & Sweet: Madonna's "Hard Candy"

Hey sex kittens, just got the new Madonna in the mail this morning. Hard Candy comes out tomorrow. Here's a first impression...

Madonna
Album: Hard Candy (Warner Bros.)
In stores: Tuesday
Why we care: Forty-nine-year-old mom Madge invites the neighbor boys over for a little while-he’s-away on her 11th studio album. Justin Timberlake, Kanye West, Timbaland and Pharrell bring their synthy booty beats and marching-band samples, Madonna purrs out every dumb “give it to me” cliche, and we all dance naked.
Why we like it: If all that sounds a little desperate, a little forced and a lot of fun, well, it is — how you deal with the morning guilt is up to you. The Timberlake appearance has the intended Mrs. Robinson effect, but Madonna merges best with Pharrell, whose restless rhythms goose her into giving more.
Reminds us of: In the liner notes, Madonna looks like a dancer at Adult World in Syracuse, N.Y. This is not a good thing.
Download these: 4 Minutes (WATCH) Heartbeat (LISTEN) and Candy Shop (LISTEN)
Grade: B

Debbie Daly? Maybe, Just Maybe

So Stuck in the '80s stud Steve Spears is strutting around all cocky and googly-eyed today. You see, after an in-house interview yesterday, '80s pop sensation Deborah Gibson hugged the big goof --but all I got was a stiff, lousy handshake. However, as the following video proves, the real connection was actually made between Daly and Gibson, who work up such hot chemistry during the chat, it's amazing we didn't just attack each other on the rickety table.

Anyway, here's the VIDEO of our interview.

And here's another hot picture. And here's Spears bragging. The podcast should be up on iTunes real soon.

Gibson + Daly + Spears = Podcast Magic

Just had a sizzling sit-down interview with the incandescent Deborah Gibson (I just called her "Gibson"), who was visiting the St. Pete Times on a promotional tour. As part of an upcoming Stuck in the '80s podcast/video spectacular, Steve Spears and I talked with the '80s sensation-turned-Broadway star for about 45 minutes in the studio.

I thought Steve's head was gonna explode when he asked her about posing for Playboy. She was totally toying with him, too -- then, after dishing about the nudity, she told a saucy tale of Playboy Mansion mayhem. Hot, very hot. Especially since she looks drop-dead gorgeous in person, about 10 years younger than her 37. Her secret? She's never tried drugs, alcohol or smokes. (Me? I did all those things on the way to work this morning.)

Anyway, Gibson is promoting a series of projects (including a monthlong run at Harrah's in Atlantic City). She also has some new songs ready to record, so a comeback album could be on the horizon. The video of our chat will probably go up before the actual podcast, so we'll keep you updated. Right now, I have to get the defibs for Spears.

Oh well, at least he'll go out with a smile on his face.

This Is Strikingly Accurate

This magnificent piece of art is from Stuck in the '80s fan Mike Tartar.

If you haven't passed out yet, and would like to be even more skeeved out, go HERE for the rest of the story.

Whether You Like It or Not...

American Idol starts next Tuesday.

And although I will continue to post a wonderland of musical madness and self-referential playlists, I will also be taking over a hulking portion of the Idol coverage here at your St. Pete Times.

I intend to cover the show irreverently but comprehensively, as both a chronicler of popular culture and a large man in his boxer shorts eating Chunky Monkey and chortling at Simon Cowell's man-bazooms.

In other words, I'll make it worth your while, baby.

So as you gaze at the vocal talents of Antonella Barba, let's start the Idol 2008 campaign by asking this question...

HOW MANY OF YOU PLAN TO WATCH (all of, part of, none of) SEASON 7 OF AMERICAN IDOL?

Miranda Lambert Gets You Drunk

This post is basically just an excuse to run a hot picture of country spitfire Miranda Lambert. And provide a link to my interview with her. And seduce the young lass into my inescapable web of love.

According to the Associated Press, Lambert's family -- from lil' ol Lindale, Texas -- is marketing a series of wines based on Miranda's song titles.

From their private wine label, aka Red 55 Winery, the Lamberts will provide such delicious blends as "Gunpowder & Lead Merlot" and "Crazy Ex-Girlfriend Sweet Wine." (No, seriously.)

There is also a wine called "Electric Pink," named after one of her guitars. Methinks these wines will come in the screw-top variety, although I can't be certain about that.

Melissa McGhee: Dog Lover

With all the negative talk about American Idol flameout Jessica Sierra -- her arrest, her disrespect of authority, HER SEX TAPE!!! (go on, click here) -- I'd like to remind you about Tampa Bay's other AI star, the delightful and talented Melissa McGhee.

McGhee (who was a Top 12er on the show in 2006) and I judged Tampa Bay Idol together, and I found her to be smart, sassy and, most importantly, well-balanced.

She's also incredibly hot. But she's using her attractiveness for good, not evil. McGhee posed for the Little Pet Project's 2008 charity calendar, which raises money for homeless animals (click here for the calendar -- fair warning: some of the snaps might be a little too saucy for work).

See? Not all Tampa amateur singing stars go wild. Melissa's a good egg.

No, No, Nose Job! The Career Killer

According to USA Today, my future third ex-wife Ashley Tisdale, 22, has gotten a nose job. This saddens me a great deal. My #1 tween-pop obsession, aka Sharpay in High School Musical, is pulling the whole "deviated septum" medical necessity nonsense.

"The older I got, the worse it got," she said. "I didn't do this because I believe in plastic surgery. I did this to help my health."

I'm not buying it.

The thing I like about Ashley is that her flaws are so damn adorable. The pointy schnoz, the warbly singing voice, the bad acting. The maniacal Disney machine has let her be a bit of a dork -- albeit a terribly cute dork. But now, with the new honker, she's Ashlee Simpson, she's Jennifer Grey. If you're already an established star -- established on the quirks that made you, no less -- the new nose thing is a career-killer. You basically have a new, less-interesting face than the one people fell in love with.

Wow, I've obviously put way too much thought into this.

My First Crush: Pamela Sue Martin

This is Pamela Sue Martin. Most 37-year-old American men will recognize her as the woman who first titillated their prepubescent fun zones. As well as being TV's Nancy Drew, Martin made her mark as Fallon Carrington on '80s prime-time soap Dynasty. Her character was a naughty lil' minx who smoked pot behind the guest house and teased men into delirium. After seeing Pamela Sue Martin, I seriously thought something had gone horribly wrong with my special place.

Anyway, there's been a great deal of talk lately about Martin -- well, mostly generated by me. Okay, completely generated by me. I gush about her in the current Stuck in the '80s podcast. (You can find the link to the show on the right.) As a result of my renewed interest, and because I'm a journalist, I've also done hardcore research on her. I even found a few tribute sites.

So if it's cool with everybody, I'd now like to celebrate Pamela Sue Martin in Playlist form. Just a little thank-you for helping a young man realize it was time to ditch the Toughskins. Oh, and Pamela, if you're out there, and if you ever wanna launch a comeback, I'm your man.

Herewith, the Pamela Sue Martin Playlist...

#1 Crush -- Garbage
Something's Happening -- Peter Frampton
Hooked on a Feeling -- B.J. Thomas
Crush on You -- the Jets
Oops...I Did It Again -- Britney Spears
A Real Fine Place to Start -- Sara Evans
A Strange Education -- the Cinematics
Baby, What a Big Surprise -- Chicago
Dream Weaver -- Gary Wright

My New Celebrity Crush

Anybody else watching the new show Pushing Daisies (Wed nights, ABC)?  It's a hyperstylized, purple-prosey comedy about a piemaker who can raise the dead. It's part whodunit, part romance, part Coen Brothers. In fact, director Barry Sonnenfeld, executive producer of the quirkcentric show, was once the Coen Bros. cinematographer.

But enough about that. The best thing about Pushing Daisies is this little lady (and I do mean little) to the left, Kristin Chenoweth. She's my new celebrity obsession. You're off the hook Ashley Tisdale! (The Forever Fiancee is totally cool with my new crush -- she's fairly certain I don't have a shot.) Chenoweth plays Olive Snook, the piemaker's "tenacious sprite" assistant who's known to break into Hopelessly Devoted to You at a moment's notice.

The theater geeks around here say Chenoweth previously starred in Broadway smash Wicked. She's also a raging conservative who once dated Aaron Sorkin, which kinda kills my buzz a bit. But she's also fond of displaying her cleavage, which usually restores my buzz. (Here's her official site.)

Anyway, she totally does it for me. I'm wicked smitten. Now that Curb Your Enthusiasm is done for another season, Pushing Daisies is my only "appointment" television, mainly because of my gal. So I thought I dedicate a few songs to this incandescent blond pixie with the naughty streak.

Blondes (Have More Fun) -- Rod Stewart
Little Sister -- Elvis Presley
Cause I'm a Blonde -- Information Society
Short People -- Randy Newman
Suicide Blonde -- INXS
Daisy Jane -- America
Cherry Pie -- Warrant

Alicia Keys' "As I Am"

Alicia Keys, As I Am (J Records) GRADE: A-

Prodigious R&B star Alicia Keys opens her new album with a baroque piano flurry, a fastest-fingers contest blending classical pomp with funky stomp. The album and the instrumental are both called As I Am, which turns out to be both a mission statement and a stubborn promise. Although she’s pretty enough to be a pinup and clever enough to chart with easy-bake hits, the only game she’s playing is her own.

So what we have here is another solid, safe, at times spectacular Alicia Keys album, one she describes rather boastfully as "Janis Joplin meets Aretha Franklin." The ballads (both the breakups and the back-togethers) burn with that seamless soul-kissed voice, the upbeat tracks get a good grind going and the go-girl messages are in all the right places. It’s a fine album, one of the year’s most pleasing, and it’s going bag Grammys and sell in bunches.

So why am I still a little disappointed with As I Am, her first studio disc since 2003’s The Diary of Alicia Keys?

Unfair expectations, no doubt. The 26-year-old is the rare modern pop star who’s better in concert than she is on album. She’s capable of playing anything, singing anything, a consummate go-go-go showwoman in a curvy 5-foot-5 frame. In a live setting, everything is given extra oomph, piano-playing as a contact sport. Ask anyone who’s been lucky enough to get a ticket to her show, and they’ll rave in agreement. In this day and age of one-and-done pop stars, Keys is someone will be cheering for 20 years down the road.

Ever since I saw her on a double-bill with John Legend— and then met Keys face-to-face at the MTV VMAs in Miami, where I was rendered mute and drooly — I’ve been a major Keys fan. Album after album, show after show, she keeps getting better. So I honestly expected As I Am to be her masterpiece, her Songs in the Key of Life, her Dusty in Memphis. It was the one album I had circled on my calendar at the beginning of the year. Is that fair? Maybe not. But it’s the truth.

REVIEW: Carrie Underwood's Bumpy "Ride"

Carrie Underwood, Carnival Ride (Arista) GRADE: D

She loves Jesus and Jack Daniel’s, the Rolling Stones and Rascal Flatts. She’s the farmgirl-next-door from the great state of Oklahoma; she’s the legs-aplenty champ from American Idol. She sings for the single city gals; she sympathizes with the dirt-road housefraus. She plays state fairs and stadiums, working multiculti crowds with a politician’s precision and a bombshell smile.

Country star Carrie Underwood is all things to all people, which is one heck of a trick for a 24-year-old. Seriously, Willie Mays didn’t cover the bases like Underwood does. As a result, the blond looker is the best-selling musician of the last two years, her 2005 debut, Some Hearts, having sold more than 6 million copies. Hit singles ranged from religious plea Jesus, Take the Wheel to besotted revenge fantasy Before He Cheats. Each song had just enough butter-knife edge to separate them from the rest of the pop-country dreck.

Not that content mattered that much. At a time when selling albums is a Herculean task, Underwood is a marketing marvel, a product of Simon Fuller, Clive Davis and the rest of the Idol starmaking machine. She was born on television, raised on radio and nurtured by a widespread country fan base that believes in brand loyalty. As to the real Carrie Underwood, who the heck knows? She might as well be a Disney princess — which is entirely the point.

With her new album, Carnival Ride, Underwood could wind up being the top seller of 2007, too. I wouldn’t be surprised if she moves more than a million copies this first week alone. Never mind that her second disc lacks the pop punch of the first album. Never mind that it's not very clever. Never mind that it’s actually pretty dull. Underwood keeps her nose clean, dates Dallas Cowboys quarterbacks and does whatever her handlers tell her to do. And for that reason alone, she’ll remain the pop star to beat.

Live Nude Madonna!

Okay, maybe not nude. But she is going Live.

According to the Wall Street Journal, Madonna is ready to leave longtime label Warner Bros. and sign a $120 million deal with concert promoters Live Nation.

The 10-year deal is another sign of how power players in the toilet-bound music biz are trying to shuffle up and survive. By cutting a broad deal with Madge -- who usually deals with separate entities for albums, tours, merchandising, etc. -- Live Nation gets "a piece of the whole pie," as the paper reports. Of course, these days, Madonna's pie isn't a popular as it used to be (um, so to speak).

Sounds like a shaky deal to me. When I was a teenager, and Madonna was Like a Virgin, she really did it for me. I'm not gonna lie. She caused some restless nights. But after the Sex book, I pretty much lost interest. Do people care about her anymore?

Rather surprisingly, I have discovered a smattering of Madonna songs lurking on my iPod. So herewith, the BEST AND WORST OF MADONNA:

The Five BEST Madonna Songs:
5) Live to Tell
4) Crazy for You
3) Into the Groove
2) Music
1) Ray of Light

The Five WORST Madonna Songs:
5) Papa Don't Preach
4) La Isla Bonita
3) Take a Bow
2) Secret
1) This Used to Be My Playground

My Unhealthy Obsession With Ashley Tisdale

So I'm in Target today, holding Ashley Tisdale's solo album in my hands. Part of me is saying, "I need to write about her! She's so real, so honest" while the other half of me is saying, "C'mon, Daly, get a grip. She's 22. This is an extremely unhealthy obsession. What's the matter with you? This is kind of like your thing for Charlene Tilton back in the '80s!" To which the other half of me countered, "He liked Charlene Tilton?" and the other other half of me answered back, "Oh yeah, he had a full-on Charlene Tilton thing. You don't remember that? But that's not the worst of it. Remember his crush on Betty White?" To which both halves of me said, "Ewwww."

No music today. Instead, in the matter of full disclosure, here are 10 unlikely celebrities (real and imaginary) on which I've had a strange crush:

10. Tennis player Carling Bassett
9. The Fairy Godmother from Shrek 2
8. All of the Golden Girls except for Estelle Getty
7. Dallas star Charlene Tilton
6. Jessica Rabbit
5. She-Hulk
4. Natalie Merchant
3. Belinda Carlisle (chubby version)
2. Shirley MacLaine in Terms of Endearment
1. Ashley Tisdale

You Say It's Your B'day...It's My B'day, Too

I'm not gonna lie to you: Beyonce really does it for me. Her last album was kinda lame -- and yet, this picture from the liner notes of her last album was not. Look at those gators! Look at those heels! My girl B can sing, she can dance -- and her coconut-cracking gams are superheroic in build. A national treasure, I say! She's only 25 years old, but I bet she feels older, with all the Rihannas and such nipping at her diva heels. Poor thing. I'm here for you, baby girl. I'm here for you.

Anyway, on Saturday night, I'll be reviewing "The Beyonce Experience" at the St. Pete Times Forum. Ms. Knowles comes on at 9:15, and plays (or does whatever Beyonce does) until 11:15. I really only posted this blogation in order to run saucy pix, but for anyone who might care in the slightest, here is her setlist for the show, which has been printed in a few places. Let's go get 'em, B:

"Crazy in Love"
"Freakum Dress"
"Green Light"
"Baby Boy"/"Murder She Wrote"
"Beautiful Liar"
"Naughty Girl"
"Me, Myself and I"
"Dangerously in Love 2/He Loves Me"
"Flaws And All"
Destiny's Child Medley
"Speechless"
"Ring the Alarm"
"Suga Mama"
"Upgrade U"
"'03 Bonnie & Clyde"
"Check on It"
"Get Me Bodied"
"Diamonds Are a Girl's Best Friends/Dreamgirls"
"Listen"
"Irreplaceable"
"Deja Vu"

Get your panties ready...

Who told Victoria her saucy little secret? Who helped Frederick seduce the hotties of Hollywood? Who's the top banana in the Fruit of the Loom gang?

Tom Jones, baby!

The 66-year-old Welsh Wonder knows undies like Air Jordan knows hoops. And at Ruth Eckerd Hall Wednesday, the first of two sold-out nights, the chest-hairiest crooner in pop history was drilled with his first pair of unmentionables at the 50-minute mark of a brilliantly smarmy 90-minute show.

It was a tiny pink thong, and it hit him square in his remarkably fit chest. "Oooh," Jones purred.

Soon after, in the middle of classic sing-along "Delilah," an even smaller pair of skivvies landed at his steel-tipped leather boots. "Heh heh heh," he lasciviously chuckled.

And just about every one of his 2,200 fans squealed and swooned.

In a matter of shameless disclosure, I'm a huge TJ fan. All of his the swinging-60's stuff is sublime, of course. But for the past two decades, Jones has teamed up with modern-pop talents as diverse as Wyclef Jean, Portishead and the Stereophonics for techno-cocktail cool. It's cheesy and trippy, like glow-in-the-dark Velveeta.

Dressed in a ridiculous purple suit, Jones played some new songs (including "200 lbs. of Heavenly Joy," a great take on a Howlin' Wolf tune). He played the old songs (for "Help Yourself," he motioned to his bathing-suit area as he sang the line "Love is like candy on a shelf").

"And I'll play a few in-between songs, too," Jones cooed, making the word "between" sound like a four-letter come-on. Jones is a classic Vegas showman in every sense of the word. He chatted up the crowd, which was predominantly gray-haired but also featured a surprising amount of young women. He sweat his tail off -- and shook that tail as much as his hips would allow.

He put together a tight 11-piece rock band, complete with horn section. And he sang every song as if life and libido counted on it. His baritone remains a remarkably strong over-the-top instrument.

He's not so much a singer as a belter, pulling that microphone back two feet from his jet-black goatee for the show-stopping notes. Forget about subtlety or nuance or quiet moments: Tom Jones likes to wail.

Case in point, a cover of "Fly Me to the Moon," which suddenly sounded like the best bar pick-up line in history.

The last 45 minutes of the show was a full-on undies assault, as Jones, doffing his jacket to great effect, uncorked the classics: "What's New Pussycat?" a grinding "You Can Leave Your Hat On," the pulsating "Sexbomb" and hip-thrusting anthem "It's Not Unusual."

But he saved the randiest moment for the encore, a killer cover of Prince's "Kiss," the song that kickstarted his career revival revival in the late '80s. Over a funky hip-hop beat, he hollered "Think I better dance now!" and shimmied and juked and wiggled all over the darn place.

And making sure the crowd went totally bonkers, he then lifted up his shirt, revealing a ripped, hirsute stomach that reminded me of Chewbacca at Gold's Gym. One more time: Tom Jones, baby!

Sanjaya's Sister!

Just found out that future American Idol champ Sanjaya Malakar's sister worked at Hooters. Why wasn't I notified of this sooner? Shamal Malakar was an early plotline on this season's show. Bro made it to Hollywood; sis went back to the orange hot pants.

Shamal is free to work where she wants. That said, I hate Hooters. The Forever Fiancee always gives me crap about that, saying I merely don't like the food (which is true). She says that, in actuality, I'm a great fan of the theory behind Hooters. That crazy FF, always busting my chops.

Besides those crappy wings, my big problem with Hooters are those ridiculous pantyhose the servers have to wear, like dollar-store scuba suits. It's totally unappetizing. And I'm not sure I see the health benefits of keeping their legs covered, but it's okay to allow their shellacked hair to swing all over my two-dozen nuclear wings.

By the way, I totally endorse Wing House.

Amy & Lily: So Bad, So Good

It would take a brave man to date Brit brats Amy Winehouse and Lily Allen. But it would take an even braver man to dump either of them. These pop newcomers don’t wallow in heartbreak. Nope, do them wrong, and they’ll melodiously de-pants you, turning your anatomical shortcomings into killer hooks while the rest of us hit the dance floor.

Potty-mouthed, vindictive and tons of nasty fun, Winehouse and Allen are already stars in the U.K., as much for their late-night shenanigans and dating habits as their delicious new albums. It seems every other London tabloid leads with either “Amy Winehouse passed out at...” or “Lily Allen tried to karate-kick the paparazzi at...”

But comparing these boozy birds to our own tabloid trainwrecks is a mistake. Lily and Amy are more akin to golden-age rockers, like Mick and Keith, hearty partiers who have the singing-songwriting chops to make their vices seem almost charming.

With a double-take voice that’s a little Billie Holiday, a little Ronnie Spector, Winehouse is a beehived, tattooed 23-year-old who loves ’60s girl groups, hip-hop beats and intoxicants, all of which she indulges in on sophomore disc Back to Black.

On her debut, Alright, Still..., the 21-year-old Allen is a smarty-pants rich kid with a thing for island riddims, boy-bashing lyrics and a “mockney” accent that gives edge to her tipsy Dusty Springfield impression.

Both budding stars get help from producer Mark Ronson, who displays a deft feel for throwback detail and ear-candy lushness. In fact, these albums sound so timeless, it’s easy to overlook the frisky lyrics. But soon enough, you’ll hear Winehouse trying to hide her “carpet burns,” or Allen’s riding her bike “cause the filth took away my license,” and you realize there’s something else going on here.

Winehouse’s first single, Rehab, is a soul-kissed marvel. Backed by ringing chimes and a chunky Motown groove, the woman the tabs call Wino (or Amy Alehouse) sings: “They tried to make me go to rehab, I said no, no, no.” In an age when everyone’s off getting clean, Winehouse thumbs her nose at taking the cure: “There’s nothing you can teach me, that I can’t learn from Mr. Hathaway,” a romantic reference to soul king Donny.

After that aggressive start, Winehouse, who wrote most of the album, slows things down, preferring to croon her malaise and mischief over a soft, cocktail party vibe. If you want to slow dance to it, great. If you want to smoke and drink and streak the neighborhood, that’ll work, too.

Whereas Winehouse’s sound originates from ’50s and ’60s R&B, Allen prefers Mod melodies with Latin rhythms and a splash of Mexicali horns. It’s the perfect framework for her, a modern girl with a hedonistic Swinging ’60s bent. First single Smile has an innocent reggae bounce and breezy la-la-la’s, but listen to the lyrics and the song turns comically sinister: “At first when I see you cry, yeah it makes me smile.”

Because of her puckish songwriting skills and good-time chronicles, Allen has a better shot at scoring hits with young audiences. At one point she even dedicates a fantastic Big Top vamp to her stoner brother Alfie. But for all the silliness, you can’t overlook her smarts. Everything’s Just Wonderful is a Burt Bacharach-meets-Herb Alpert frenzy, with sterile ba-ba-ba harmonies and spacey keyboard cool. Allen doesn’t want the hassle of being the voice of her generation, but she knows her lack of responsibility isn’t doing anyone any good: “We’re on all fours, crawling on our knees, someone help us please.”

It’s a startling moment of self-awareness — even if the next song is a below-the-belt ex-boyfriend slam called Not Big.

The New Ol' Blue Eyes?

Here's an essay I wrote for our Weekend mag, in honor of Justin Timberlake's Feb. 22 show at the St. Pete Times Forum. I'm expecting a barrage of hate mail -- all typed on Underwood No.5s.

IT ALL STARTS WITH THOSE PEEPERS, OF COURSE: sometimes flirty, sometimes intense, but always aware, of the cameras, of the crowds, of the cool. Frank Sinatra and Justin Timberlake, Ol' Blue Eyes and New Blue Eyes, singin' joes with the world on a ring-a-ding string.

Then there's this: Frank and JT both started in cheeky boy bands (the Hoboken Four, 'N Sync) and silly variety shows (Major Bowes, The Mickey Mouse Club). Sooner, rather than later, these scrawny, winter-born white boys from humble origins went solo, relying on African-American maestros -- Quincy Jones, Count Basie, Pharrell, Timbaland -- to inject crossover soul into their sound.

And don't forget: They both famously hooked up with femmes fatales -- Ava Gardner, Britney Spears -- and used well-publicized breakups (whether they were the dumper or the dumpee) to make their best music: In the Wee Small Hours, Cry Me a River. Those chart-topping tears would, in turn, help these incurable lady-killers attract even more bombshells.

On the surface, comparing Justin Randall Timberlake, who plays the St. Pete Times Forum in Tampa tonight, to Francis Albert Sinatra sounds preposterous, silly, downright dangerous, considering Frank's clout.

But think about it for a minute, and the similarities are unmistakable. Heck, even Justin seems to know he's chasing Frank's ghost, the young pop stud dressing in Rat Pack ties, fedoras and carefully rumpled suits that beg comparison.

****

Take away those fedoras, the women, the stage lights, and things really get interesting. Two seemingly regular guys, Frank and Justin became larger than life by reading the vagaries of pop culture and using their talent in the right way at the right time: ditching youth-oriented bands, embracing muscular pop, daring to be arrogant, unafraid to be vulnerable, bringing sexy back (in the '60s, in the '00s) when we needed it most.

Madonna reinvents herself. Frank and Justin, two Grammy winners fully aware of their strengths and limitations, redirect themselves, deftly altering their approach without sacrificing who they are.

And because they're so good at manipulating and convincing, Timberlake and Sinatra found acting to be a natural extension of their talents. Sinatra won an Academy Award for his role as Maggio in From Here to Eternity; Timberlake, a critical fave as genial thug Frankie in Alpha Dog, might get a shiny statue someday, too.

In a way, they even sing the same kind of songs. Sure, JT isn't crooning big-band swing, and Sinatra didn't go hip-hop. But put a young Frank in 2007, or Justin in 1942, and maybe you'd see Sinatra cooing Senorita and Timberlake nailing Night and Day. After all, these two are pop stars through and through.

****

As for the major differences? Well, there's really only one glaring difference worth mentioning. Frank Sinatra is the greatest pop vocalist of all time, male or female. Timberlake wasn't even the best singer on the Grammys last week.

But Timberlake certainly has skills: His pillow-talk falsetto is a marvel. He can put together a bumpin' boogie track. And for a skinny punk from Memphis, the kid's one heck of a dancer. Frank was the ultimate showman, but Justin is already getting props for being the most complete young star stomping the boards today.

Besides, Timberlake just turned 26. Sinatra died in 1998 at the age of 82 after a career that lasted six decades and featured myriad comebacks; Timberlake started recording in 1998 and he has cleared one professional hurdle, the boy band curse. The kid's got a lot of living to do.

Is Timberlake the new Sinatra?

Maybe, maybe not. But the fact we're even discussing it tells you just how good Justin could be -- and just how much the world needs another Frank to brighten things up around here.

Ever Heard of Amy Winehouse?

British R&B bad girl Amy Winehouse will make a big-budget bid to break into the States this March with her sophomore album Back to Black. (Her first one, 2003's Frank, apparently went platinum, no thanks to anyone on these shores.)

I had never heard of her before -- until some really hot pictures of her appeared on my desk thanks to the folks at Universal Republic. She looks like a chunkier, funkier Gina Gershon. The British tabloids supposedly have a field day with her, 'cause she likes to party and talk about her sex life. And I, of course, totally dig that.

What about her music, you ask? You can go here to check it out. It's pretty wild. As if Phil Spector produced Macy Gray or if Nellie McKay ditched the piano and used Motown samples to pump up her cheeky rhymes. The song Rehab is particularly hot and could definitely be a hit over here. I'm liking Amy Winehouse, and totally plan to write slobbery things about her later on.

Fed Up! Britney Files For Divorce

"Wow, I didn't see this coming," Sean snickered sarcastically as he began concocting a fiendish plan to seduce Britney and make her his wife.

According to the Associated Press, Britney Spears, 24, filed for divorce Tuesday from rapper-slacker Kevin Federline, 28. A Los Angeles County Superior Court filing cites "irreconcible differences." Spears married Federline in 2004.

Spears made a "surprise" appearance on David Letterman the night before, saying nothing about her soon-to-be-shattered nuptials -- and instead letting her little black dress do most of the talking. She was calm, cool, sexy -- and probably really pumped that she was about to cut that lame-o loose.

Check 'Em Out: Brazilian Girls

Henry Mancini in an S&M bar? The Girl From Ipanema brandishing a bullwhip? Nine Inch Nails in edible fundies?

On new album Talk to La Bomb, Brazilian Girls — three boys, one girl, no actual Brazilians anywhere to be found — are all about sexy sleight of hand, mixing bossa nova cool and industrial aggression, rock grandeur and electronic minimalism. Just when you’re grooving to one sound, they yank your naughty bits in a new direction.

If that sounds like a headache, it’s not. The New York quartet might be hard to categorize, but that doesn’t make them any less fun. Brazilian Girls are led by vocalist Sabina Sciubba, a breathy femme fatale born in Rome, raised in Brooklyn who successfully seduces in five different languages, often in the same song. (If you’re counting: German, French, Italian, Spanish and English.)

The musical landscapes are catchy, funky and highly danceable, especially Jique and All About Us. The band even indulges in some candied pop chops, inviting the Cars’ Ric Ocasek to produce the New Wave-y fun of Last Call.

Brazilian Girls’ live shows are notoriously randy affairs, with Sciubba famous for showing a whole lot of skin and inviting fans to come dirty dance onstage. If you're going to this Friday's show at Jannus Landing in St. Petersburg, bring protection.

FERGIE'S HUMPS, ETC.

On the sonic booty bazaar of 2005 smash My Humps, the Black Eyed Peas’ Fergie showed off her most outrageous body parts as bandleader Will.i.am played X-rated auctioneer. The lascivious hit was wrong in so many ways — and I loved it.

On The Dutchess, Fergie’s consistently soft-core solo debut album, the singer/pinup born Stacy Ferguson is back to hawk the rest of her groove thing, and Will.i.am is also there to overproduce and drool. At 13 randy tracks, Fergie’s Ferg’s Pea-less coming-out party makes My Humps look subtle in comparison. Which means I kind of like this one, too.

Fergie isn’t a very good singer — she puts a street-hard edge on her singing, and she’s most comfortable cooing or chanting come-ons — so Will.i.am makes up for her talent void by framing her in over-the-top musical numbers. Opening song Fergalicious borrows its arrogance from LL Cool J’s I’m That Type of Guy and an old-school hip-hop beat from J.J. Fad’s Supersonic.

Will.i.am isn’t shy about swiping samples from the pop-music canon. On the clever, catchy Clumsy, he uses a trippy echo of Little Richard’s The Girl Can’t Help It as a hook for the soulful midtempo love song. The cool reggae bounce of Mary Jane Shoes "contains an interpolation of No Woman, No Cry" — a tricky way of saying he’s poaching from Bob Marley. Nevertheless, Will.i.am makes for a likable thief.

Curiously enough, Will didn’t have a hand in first single London Bridge, an inventive bit of smut that uses the regal span as a metaphor for Fergie’s naughty bits. The song was produced by Pussycat Dolls collaborator Polow Da Don, who also knows a thing or two about borrowing great ideas: London Bridge is essentially Gwen Stefani’s Hollaback Girl gone to seed. Naturally, I love it.

Hot for Teacher: Songs for Debra Lafave?

Debra Lafave should totally make a pop album.

After all, the rather hot Riverview, Fla., pedagogue seduced a 14-year-old boy -- and yet she's still more respected than naked heiress-turned-pop star Paris Hilton. And c'mon, Lafave was somewhat remorseful (kind of) on the Today show.

Plus making a cheapo covers album will put off Lafave's inevitable naked foray into the pages of Hustler.

Who cares if she can sing? She already looks like one of David Lee Roth's California girls. These days, that's half the battle.

SO WHAT SHOULD DEBRA LAFAVE SING ON HER ALBUM?

SHOUT OUT YOUR REQUESTS...

I'll get us started...

1.) Teach Your Children -- Crosby Stills and Nash

Beyonce = Wonder Woman

The Hollywood buzz is that producers are once again drooling around the celebosphere for a sexy starlet to play Wonder Woman, the Amazonian crime-fighter with a heart of gold and thighs of steel. American Idol hottie Kat McPhee has been mentioned; scarily enough, so has 52-year-old Kim Basinger.

But here's a little advice for those cigar-chomping boys in the boardroom: If you can’t get Beyonce, scrap the whole damn thing.

La Knowles is the ONLY person worthy of flying Wonder Woman’s invisible plane and twirling her golden lasso. She has the hair, the muscle, the looks. And do I need to mention those coconut-cracking gams? With her classy rep and smoldering strength, Beyonce is a pop-culture superhero.

Hell, she even has her own theme song. The new Ring the Alarm is a siren wail of rage and recklessness, with the normally composed Beyonce ferocious at the idea of infidelity messing up her shot at love and luxury. The song allegedly stems from rumors that hottie popper Rihanna is cozying up to her boss, and Beyonce's beau, Jay-Z. That's a bad idea for sure. After all, hell hath no fury like a Wonder Woman scorned.

NEW MUSIC WEEK: Bob Dylan

On Tuesday, Bob Dylan released his first new album in five years, a veritable dino-dig of old blues bones, jabberwockian wordplay and vintage roadhouse sounds winkingly titled Modern Times. On that same day, a crusade of scholars, sycophants and related shut-ins began digging through the disc — does the title reference Chaplin, Sartre? — for clues related to the man, the myth, the puzzle.

Dylanology, the study of All Things Bob, is an intense pop culture pursuit; there are college courses devoted to his work. This deification both irks and amuses the emotionally reclusive Dylan, who once infuriated followers by modestly comparing his skills to those of a mere "song and dance man."

As a result of the idolatry, Modern Times, stuffed as it is with old-timey references and wild doublespeak, often sounds deliberately built to mess with heads. For instance, the album was produced by Jack Frost — otherwise known as Bob Dylan, trying on yet another chilly mask.

For all the allegory, however, Modern Times also has the wistful aroma of a goodbye note. It’s entirely possible that Dylan is bidding adieu, and that the album (and his enduring message) is simply about looking back, with anger and affection. The final installment in a career-rejuvenating "trilogy," the new disc is neither as bleak as 1997’s Time Out of Mind, nor as fanciful as 2001’s Love and Theft. Instead, Modern Times, which features Dylan on keyboards, guitar and harmonica, is both serious and shamelessly romantic, sepia-toned and pop culture savvy, a puzzling, puckish portrait of the artist as a 65-year-old antihero.

(My Dylan review runs in full tomorrow -- along with a story called "Blonde on Blonde," an epic battle between Paris Hilton and Jessica Simpson.)

NEW MUSIC WEEK: Jessica Simpson

Simpson’s post-divorce disc, A Public Affair, released today, is mostly about what a wild, sex-stuffed time the former Newlywed is having these days -- although a relatively sweet cover of the Dixie Chicks’ Let Him Fly is aimed straight at ex Nick Lachey ("And there ain’t no talkin’ to this man, he’s been trying to tell me so / It took a while to understand the beauty of just letting go").

Unlike her wee sis Ashlee, Jessica can hold a note. Unfortunately, the note she's holding is usually drool-inducingly dull. The bright spots are more like dim spots. A funk-disco hybrid called Push Your Tush is kinda fun in a horrific Girls Gone Wild sort of way. Vampy throwback Swing With Me might have been interesting if Christina Aguilera hadn’t done the dirrty-USO-girl thing 10 times better just a few weeks ago.

What's most disturbing about the album is its incredible lack of imagination. First single A Public Affair is a blatant ripoff of Madonna’s Holiday — until it turns into a blatant ripoff of Diana Ross’ Ain’t No Mountain High Enough. And a clunky cover of Dead or Alive’s You Spin Me Round (Like a Record Player) is a desperate attempt to cash in on the ’80s craze. I hate to say it, but Jessica Simpson makes Paris Hilton look like a pop genius.

NEW MUSIC WEEK: Paris Hilton

Paris Hilton makes me feel dirty inside, and not just for the obvious porny reasons. Her new album, inventively titled Paris, is, for the most part, a mockery of the entire pop-music process. Especially the opening cut, Turn It Up, in which the naked heiress baby-doll-voices an assortment of hip-hop shout-outs: "Oooh! "Yeahh!" "That's hot!" "Scott Storch!"

Most of the disc has that novelty-album stench. In fact, instead of covering Do Ya Think I'm Sexy, it would have been more appropriate for her to cover, say, The Curly Shuffle or maybe Fish Heads.

HOWEVER, and this is where the dirty part comes in, not one, but two songs on the disc are, lo and behold, wicked awesome (although there's a definitely a Milli Vanilli vibe going on here. Her voice is so layered and digitized and souped-up, the actual Paris is barely recognizable).

You no doubt know the first single Stars Are Blind, a pseudo-reggae bonbon that has an intangible likeability. With that incredibly catchy chorus, it's essentially an '80s tune without sounding synthy and vintage.

I'm also digging the club-banger I Want You, which samples the title track from Grease and has all manner of air sirens screaming in the background. The track is produced by Rihanna's knob-twiddler, JR Rotem. This sucker is a shoo-in for a future single, and whether you like it or not, you'll be shaking your tuchus to Paris Hilton sometime soon.

Mariah Carey: CLICK ON THE PICTURE!!!

TAMPA - She has been a prodigy and a punchline, a pinup girl and a poster child for the pitfalls of celebrity excess. But throughout a 16-year career that has been just as curvy as that ample figure she likes to flaunt, Mariah Carey has always been able to rely on one true constant:

Her all-world pipes, a vocal gift that's downright superheroic in these prefab days of pseudo pop stars a la Paris Hilton and Lindsay Lohan.

That's a nice talent to have, and Carey sure knows it. Her show at the St. Pete Times Forum on Monday -- just the second night on her current U.S. tour -- suffered an array of bumps and clunks unbe-fitting a polished diva. The show started way late, the seven-piece backing band was far too loud and obtrusive, and her dance troupe often scuffed around like a gang of misfit mimes.

But thanks to an array of high-wire vocal derring-do, the 36-year-old Long Island native never lost an adoring crowd of 16,493 fans for too long.

(My review gets really naughty right about HERE.)

Eddie Van Halen: Porn Star?

This depresses me: Eddie Van Halen has recorded the soundtrack for an ADULT FILM.

And no, it's not called Eruption.

Herewith, a news story from that bastion of whipcrack journalism, Adult Video News:

CHATSWORTH, Calif. -- In a major crossover move, rock superstar Eddie Van Halen has joined forces with adult director Michael Ninn to write and perform two songs for the upcoming Ninn Worx feature, Sacred Sin

.

Although several big-name rappers have contributed material to XXX movies, Van Halen is probably the first major rock star to lend his name to an adult project.

Van Halen told AVN.com he’s not bothered by possible criticism. “I’m working with a friend — very simple. I like his work,” he said. “Michael Ninn is like a Spielberg to me: the imagery, the way he makes things look, just… sensual."

SPIELBERG?!! Yeah, maybe Larry Spielberg, owner of Adult World on Hollywood and Vine.

I hate to say it, but whoever has Eddie Van Halen in the Dead Pool, you're about to win big money.

If you don't believe me, check out these pictures from a recent Eddie solo show at, of all places, the House of Petals. That snapshot to the right is of Eddie's current footwear, which he presumably stole from a hobo.

Hot Pink

Despite the woman in front of me inadvertently whacking my bathing-suit area with her water bottle -- and despite a thick heat that punished the sold-out crowd -- I had a pretty swell time at Pink's show in St. Pete last night. The 26-year-old star born Alecia Moore is a lot more graceful in person. Don't get me wrong: She's still wicked when dutifully eviscerating the Paris Hiltons of the world, and that riding crop she brandished sure wasn't for taming horses. But as opposed to the constant tough tom-girl pose she struts in videos, as a live performer, Pink is likably polished with a soulful voice that needs little pitch tuning. Anyway, here are some choice bits from my live review that ran in today's St. Petersburg Times: ST. PETERSBURG -- Snarly top lip, cool bleach-blond 'do, fist-pumping rebellion packaged in radio-ready hits:

Yep, pop pugilist Pink is definitely this generation's Billy Idol....

....For opening number 'Cuz I Can, from her new album I'm Not Dead, she took to the stage in long leather boots, a frilly cocktail dress and a long riding crop, which she licked in between delivering defiant lyrics in her growly, soulful wail. Followup song Trouble, a metallic burner from 2003's Try This, featured the singer flashing her blue panties as she courted only the men who were tough enough to woo her....

....But woe be the hater who thinks Pink is only in it for the flirting.

"I wanna do a song for you tonight 'cause I think it's AWESOME," she chirped in a mock airhead coo, flipping her hair and batting her lashes. "I want you guys to pay attention, 'cause I'm easily distracted."

And with that she launched into the vitriolic fun of new song Stupid Girls, which deliciously rips into the Jessica Simpsons of pop culture and features a pleading chorus of "Where, oh where, have the smart people gone?"....

In a rousing nod to frequent collaborator Linda Perry, Pink led the crowd in an all-together-now version of What's Up, a hit for Perry's former band 4 Non Blondes. Most pop stars would be irked that the biggest crowd reaction was for someone else's song. But not Pink: She smiled and laughed and, with a rebel yell, cried for more, more, more.

Want more? You got it. 

A Public Disgrace

Wow, the new Jessica Simpson song really blows.

That's not exactly a stop-the-presses revelation, I know. But you'd think that with all the money and "advisers" supporting her post-Nick career, her peeps would have come up with something better than A Public Affair, a blatant knockoff of Madonna's Holiday (albeit without Madge's deep emotional resonance).

The tinkly synth, the faux independent-women lyrics, the perilously breathy vocal: A Public Affair reminds me of the generic songs you'd hear at the end of low-budget '80s teen movies (Morgan Stewart's Coming Home, perhaps).

By the way, it took eight (8) songwriters to whip up A Public Affair. I find that very, very funny.