The portable decline of Western civilization
From what I understand of her career (and, as someone who hasn't seen more than a minute of The Hills in total, admittedly it isn't much), Heidi Montag is generally regarded as having nothing of worth to offer the world. The release of her debut album earlier this month changed that -- Superficial is the most concise and comprehensive collection of ways people are socially awful today that's available on the market. It reads like a 40-minute mediation on kids! these! days! It is something people will be able to turn to 100, 200, 500 years from now to learn about the wastefulness of the early 2000s. You could actually get an early start by listening to it now and then doing the opposite of whatever she's describing. You'll come out a better person, guaranteed. For that, this album is an invaluable resource.
On Superficial, Montag brags ("Look at me, baby, how I'm doing!"). She exhibits heightened narcissism even for a reality star (she's the main attraction, the queen of the show, the cheer-receptacle of a crowd, the "center of attention, lookin' so bootylicious"). She begs for attention ("Turn your head, fix your eyes on this, ain't nothin' like a show!" "Come watch me, I love it when your eyes are on me!" "Zoom in for a closer view!"). She is shamelessly obsequious to the point of identity crisis ("I'll be your blonde tonight / If that's what you like / Stilettos and fish nets / If that's what you like / I'll be your hot mess / School girl and curls / Whatever it takes / Baby, if that's what you like, I'll do it"). She revels in excess ("More is more!"). She's down with our culture of scrutiny without actually seeming to grasp it -- "I'm on ya like a paparazzi flash," is imagery that's too fleeting to be a compliment, though I'm sure she means it as such (as much as she means anything). I get the feeling that when she pouts, "Take a picture, it might last longer," she's talking legacy, not complaining about staring. Pee-Wee Herman must feel so ashamed.
She is egregiously irresponsible. For example, in "Superficial," she dodges accountability: "They say I'm superficial / Some call me a bitch / They just mad cause I'm sexy, famous, and I'm rich...They say I'm superficial / 'Cause I got money / They say I'm superficial / But they really don't know me." No, Heidi, they say you're superficial because you have not done a single thing to suggest there is anything substantial inside of you. They say you're superficial because you had 10 different plastic surgery procedures done at once and then sold the story to a magazine. They say you're superficial because you probably got those procedures just so you could sell the story. They say you're superficial because that's what you named your album, creating the momentary illusion that you were owning it, and thus slightly less despicable. They say you're superficial because of when you sang that song about people taking your picture and hating on you and being jealous of you. Remember that?
The most insight here is the half-hearted, near-melodic, "Meh," that seasons some of these songs where a normal singer's ad-libbing would. The most character you get is from the balls it takes to put a song called "Blackout" on a collection of a dozen tracks that are please-kill-me clone rejects of the Britney Spears album of the same name. Even under its embarrassingly thick layer of Autotune, Montag’s voice sits the same place as the notoriously aspiring superstar La Toya Jackson: equidistant between a coo and a croak. Montag is no singer, and Superficial is no labor of love. Its aesthetic is dispassion. This would-be popular music is at best a fantasy (though I doubt her intentions are even that pure). This is a mockery of expression, the perfect musical accompaniment to Twitter, and cookie-cutter gossip blogs and LOL/ROTFL/FML sentiment and all the fucking noise that pollutes our current world of communication*. Heidi Montag has nothing to say, but Superficial says plenty.
*I enjoy/take part in this noise, of course. Just hopefully not all the time.
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