Princess Superstar, hitherto the scourge of god-fearin’ parents everywhere, has seen the future: and it’s her sorry duty to report we’re all going to hell. Well, for a few centuries anyway.
Beamed back from a far-off future where time has become irrelevant (everybody stopped counting in 3005, reasoning, not without just cause, that counting time took too much time) and everyone is named after popular advertising slogans (Coke Is It, Just Do It, Intel Inside etc), Superstar has donned her most stylish James T Kirk meets Charles Darwin fedora in an attempt to explain how the earth took such a drastic path.
Unfortunately, being a gargantuan egotist – unsurprising given her voluble hip hop roots – Superstar is part of the problem. For in 2080, having sold her soul to a computer in some Faustian pact, Princess Superstar is now the only superstar. The only celebrity in this dystopian brave new world. As omnipotent as Him Up There. Only with a dirtier mind. But hang on, if we know this is going to happen, maybe we can stop it, or is this part of her devious plan. Confused? Good. ‘Cause there ain’t a problem Superstar can’t fix.
This, then, is the premise for Concetta Kirschner’s fifth album, the dizzying musical kaleidoscope that is ‘My Machine’. A concept album (hence the aforementioned time travel spiel: don’t worry Superstar hasn’t gone totally ga-ga) that veers from electro to hip hop by way of Miami bass while visiting techno and punk. As if reflecting her vibrant New York home, My Machine is playful, trashy, multi-textual, sassy and downright salacious. It’s also Superstar’s grandest and most cohesive statement of intent to date: if you thought she was out-there with Bad Babysitter (a bona fide UK chart hit lest we forget), you wait till you cop a punch from this joint. And “Coochie Coo” is her first missive to arrive from planet ‘My Machine’.
A hyper real slice of post-modern sex disco, “Coochie Coo” betrays a fascination with smashing as many musical genres as is possible in five minutes. Having learnt well from her forays into dance music – most notably her acclaimed DJ partnership with Alexander Technique, DJs Are Not Rock Stars – the dancefloor squiggle is strong in this one. A belligerent, sex-obsessed (come on, Coochie Coo? What do you think she’s referring to?) monster, “Coochie Coo” heralds not only a welcome return to the world’s stage for Princess Superstar, but a most cunning appropriation of musical styles. She’s still rhyming of course, but this is so much more than just hip hop.
That it comes backed with a super hip Whitey remix, is added grist to Superstar’s mill. Here East London’s latest poster boy manages to reconcile the B52’s sassy pop-punk sheen with the disturbing edgy electronics proffered by the likes of Joy Division. Expect to hear it blasting from all trendy clothes shops tout de suite.
We might be going to hell then, but at least the soundtrack turned out fine again!