The scary hair and Billie Holiday on helium croak aside, Macy Gray's greatest attribute is her lyrical persona as a kooky psycho screwball with a heart of gold. When it comes to love, loss and the twin pleasures of sex and revenge, being ever so slightly nuts - and nice with it - allows her to say what most confine to the inside of their heads, without fear of judgement or recriminations.
Her third long-player confirms that even after selling eight million albums, she's still just as screwed-up as the rest of us. And as with predecessors, 'On How Life Is' and 'The Id', it does so with Gray being spectacularly direct on issues that most soul sisters gloss-up with drearily poetic couplets and vocal gymnastics.
Attacking gold diggers, 'It Ain't The Money''s filthy grind comes with raps from Beck and Pharoahe Monch and talk of milk, honey and blowjobs. 'My Fondest Childhood Memories' is a cute cartoon ska tune of growing-up, parental infidelity and vengeful murder - with Gray confronting a live-in nanny ("I loved her till I caught her sexing my father") and a plumber ("I was grateful till I caught him plunging my mother"). And best of all, 'Screamin'' is a sweet playground bounce in celebration of love's invigorating impact, complete with sing-song refrain: "All of my troubles they go away when you're on top of me, loving me down, making sounds, and it's so good I am screamin'."
Without question, Gray's sniggered humour and crack pipe vision of the world are on fine form. There are plenty of solid old skool grooves and party funk, including hands-in-the-air single 'When I See You'. And her ability to spin a dysfunctional yarn remains unparalleled. Yet, unfortunately, none of it's even remotely memorable.
Take hazy love song 'She Ain't Right For You'. Never afraid to beg, R&B's most endearing heroine's on her knees trying to convince the love of her life to choose her over a glossy rival. The underdog optimism, swirling organs and bittersweet strings, all follow breakthrough single 'I Try''s sweetly tragic theme. It tugs at all the right heart-strings. But it's forgotten before you've even had a chance to wipe the tears from your eyes.
Sadly, then, with rallying sing-alongs rationed, 'The Trouble With Being Myself' is prime dinner party material. Its love-it-while-it-lasts, easy rolling soul is doomed to soundtrack endless banal chitchat, while tragically her own wily babbling - along with the irony of munching along to her sexual and murderous fantasies - goes completely unnoticed.
