Jessica Simpson / Amanda
For better or worse, Britney Spears is the standard by which all other sweet, fresh-faced divas-in-training will be judged. She’s got the look that drives Bob Dole — and, let’s be frank, every other red-blooded guy — nutty (though for gay guys it’s strictly her the camp value). She’s savvy enough to know when to undress publicly, and while the songs she warbles are nothing but guilty pleasures, they’re pleasures all the same, whether or not anyone older than sixteen is brave enough to admit it. Apparently, Spears has snatched up all of those gems, because it seems that her rivals have been left with nothing but B-grade, instantly forgettable songs with which to work.
It must be frustrating for someone with the vocal range of 21-year-old Jessica Simpson to see all the choice cuts go to someone who can’t sing any better than an average choirgirl. The crazy-hot Dallas native, whose oft-cited virginity got more radio air time than her debut disc, 1999’s Sweet Kisses (distinguishing factor: the “Jack and Diane”-sampling “I Think I’m in Love With You”) returns with Irresistible. Which it isn’t, though the problem isn’t Simpson’s talent. She proves her mettle on the gospel standard “The Eye Is on the Sparrow,” a standout track that kills the sugar buzz the rest of the album produces. Filled with by-the-numbers disco-flavored banalities and nondescript ballads, Irresistible nonetheless suggests that Simpson could be a pop force to be reckoned with — if only she could find something worth singing.
The high-school-crush-worthy, actually teenaged and — taking a cue from her label’s head honcho Madonna — first-name-only Amanda is about Britney-level on the vocal front and Simpson-level when it comes to choosing material. Everybody Doesn’t is more notable for its pro-abstinence stance, which make her the first of these young starlets to communicate her celibacy in song rather than in interviews and press releases, than for its catchy yet disposable hooks. Amanda’s dance ditties offer harmless fun, but her irritating ballads, evidently a contractual obligation for this genre, are immediately forgettable. “Call Me,” featuring sampled strings straight out of the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack and the sound of a phone being dialed, rises above fair-to-middling status only for its novelty value, and the rest of her offerings are unsalvageably bland. Like Simpson, Amanda needs to learn that songs are the most important asset when seeking pop success — or at least third most important, after being pretty and having a good publicist.
