It’s hard to say that Paris fails to live up to expectations. If anyone out there legitimately likes Paris Hilton from a perspective outside of the dumb-blonde jokes on her show “The Simple Life,” then odds are that very same person lacks, shall we say, a refined musical taste. If this is the case, then Paris is perfect for such a person, and should be avoided like the plague by the remainder.

Ultimately, Paris is a collection of uninspired, self-indulgent techno dance tracks that are insulting to nearly everyone. The audience, obviously, is being subjected to this unremarkable dribble, and even Paris herself is at a loss, since can barely be heard over the synthesized bass and keyboards. This is an obvious reference to the fact that Paris has next to no singing talent, but will make producers a mint by her selling power and open-legged cover art alone. In the first track, “Turn Me On,” she might as well be a background singer for a song with no direction—it's a simple (admittedly addictive) techno tune that is more the offspring of producer Scott Storch than Paris Hilton.

Under the right light, one could consider Paris a concept album. Almost every track has “sexy” in it, and there is definitely the recurring theme of “Paris’s ego,” which I’d estimate has surpassed the size of Idaho. The repetitious “Fighting Over Me” is a clear indication of that, as Paris regales to us stories of how men have brawled just to be in the presence of her sexy self. “Stars Are Blind” has the distinction of being the best track on the album, but remains plagued by Hilton’s voice—the fact that the only thing she can do with it is a sultry, low moan (interpret that as you will; I am strictly referring to her singing) hurts the album a tremendous amount.

The finale is a lackluster cover of Rod Stewart’s “Do Ya Think I’m Sexy?” (which she really doesn’t need an answer to, as previous lyrics explain: “Every time I turn around there’s boys fightin’ over me… Maybe cause I’m hot to death and I’m so so so sexy.”) Here, Paris’s low, faint moan truly haunts her as she fails to hit any of the notes from a song not written specifically for her limitations. The inclusion of a cover song only furthers the album’s secondary theme of “unoriginality in lousy contemporary music.”

Musically, Paris is on par with a train wreck, but barring this fact, the album could be enjoyed if all you expect are a few light and easy dance club tracks. The album is, at best, decent but trite fluff-pop with no particularly distinguishing traits. Catchy as some songs may be, Paris leaves one with the tingling sensation of knowing that their last 40 minutes could have been used much more efficiently.

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