And so, after Nipplegate, Albumgate. What would otherwise have been simply the latest in a long line of Janet Jackson album-length libido-fests that failed to ignite the passions of Middle America will, following the Superbowl scandal, doubtless be given an almost forensic examination. And those seeking confirmation that the youngest Jackson sibling is a sex-obsessed strumpet bound on the destruction of the morals of every starch-collared American will find plenty to prove their prejudices here.
Almost every track of "Damita Jo" is a paean to some kind of rumpy pumpy. Numerous explanatory spoken word asides seek to reassure us that Janet, as she approaches 40, is seeking love rather than revelling in lust. But the sentiment, whether real or artificial, doesn't convince. Especially not in the face of the considerable evidence that suggests Janet's thoughts rarely stray above the waistline.
"Sexhibition", a would-be Timbaland-style mash-up of street-hop, driving funk and Bollywood samples, finds her imploring us to "relax - it's just sex". In "Strawberry Bounce" she wants "to make you lose control", to "bring you to your knees". "Warmth" is painful to listen to, lyrics that appear to include the phrases "put it in my mouth" and "back door love" dragged through a treacly morass of deliberately full orchestral chords dripping slushy sentimentality all over each other. By the time she's telling us that "I'm wet for you" in the cringe-inducing "Moist" you're left with the impression that this is indeed a shocking record, though not in the public outrage sense so much as how rubbish it is.
Yet there are enough high points to justify the investment of time Janet requires of us. "R&B Junkie" is a delicious throwback, like a glorious "Rhythm Nation" out-take given a glossy Noughties sheen. Man of the moment Kanye West contributes a brace of tracks that show his own happiness to experiment - "I Want You", a peculiar post-modern waltz with a '40s supper club vibe, being the ear-catcher. "All Nite (Don't Stop)" is another precision-tooled winner, with Jackson using an almost ethereal higher-pitched vocal delivery. And of course there's "Just A Little While", the brilliant new Dallas Austin-produced single, but it's so out of place amid the prevailing slew of slushy sex-obsessed detritus it has to be tacked on at the end, after the outro - an afterthought instead of a promising new direction.
Janet has been talking dirty for years, and in many respects "Damita Jo" is just the next record in a smutty line stretching back a decade. That it'll be her most scrutinised release is a problem, because its stilted, wearying, obsessive concentration on an uncomfortably forced notion of it's creator's sexuality means it's the only album she's made in the last dozen years that doesn't merit such focussed attention.
