Invincible

It all went to hell when he started calling himself The King Of Pop. At his peak, there would’ve been no need for such a boast – it was a self-evident truth. But once Michael Jackson started touting his hide in Wrestling Federation terms you knew it was all over. Elvis’ erstwhile son-in-law had left the realm of the sensible, if indeed he ever dwelled there.

Harsh words maybe, but here’s a guy who for the last decade has squandered enough talent to do ten pop stars, pissed it away in drib and drab records, notwithstanding the odd nugget like ‘Scream’.

Of course, many reckoned the rot had set in by the early ’90s. The black intelligentsia never forgave him for tampering with his pigment like something out of a bad cyberpunk novel (much less courting the white rock market via Eddie Van Halen and Slash), casual buyers came to regard him as an ’80s MTV relic, and as for the kids, well, Jackson now has to slug it out with Destiny’s Child, N Sync and a whole litter of runts who learned more than a thing or two from the Jackson 5 blueprint.

So what about Invincible?

First off, the sleeve notes bode ill. A rough dozen of these tracks boast four and sometimes five names in the credits, and as with script-writing, the more chefs the more of a dog’s dinner the finished product is likely to be. Course, when the names include Teddy Riley, Rodney Jerkins and Carole Bayer Sager, you have to take a step back (as I’m sure Jacko’s accountant did when he saw the recording bills).

And true, the opening ‘Unbreakable’ sounds like the million dollars it probably cost. Over a dinky piano riff, clipped rhythm and a rap from the late Biggie Smalls, Michael exercises his usual repertoire of hiccups, whoops and other vocal tricks that suggest he’s been employing Bubbles as a voice coach. Ditto ‘Heartbreaker’ and the title tune. And check out what he does on ‘Break Of Dawn’ – when Michael really does sing as opposed to trotting out his standard range of auto-asphyxiated affectations, you get chills. Unfortunately, most of the material is just plain dire. The backroom boys work their usual production juju, but Invincible has the air of everything Prince has done since Diamonds & Pearls: beautifully crafted tracks, top-notch performances, not a blemish in the merchandise (unless of course it was put there on purpose) but still light years from his best work.

You’ve heard everything here before, from the gag-me-with-a-spoon syrup of ‘Heaven Can Wait’ and ‘Butterflies’ to the mid-tempo booty sniffing of ‘You Rock My World’ (including a sad attempt at a hip-hop skit with Chris Rock).

‘Speechless’ and ‘You Are My Life’ are soggy wads of Disney nosedrip that should’ve never made it past the demo stage, but ‘The Lost Children’ is the album’s absolute nadir, a tepid spew of Barney The Dinosaur platitudes that probably has Jarvis tossing in his sleep as we speak. ‘Privacy’ is a shade better, a heavy handed whinge against the paparazzi with thinly veiled Diana Spencer reference and crap guitar solo, but overall, Michael’s suffering from a terminal musical identity crisis. On tracks like ‘Threatened’ he wants to play the bad-ass mudderfucker, but on the ballads he displays all the emotional maturity of a . . . well, I was gonna say a four year old, but the four year olds I know are a damn sight more clued in.

Discounting the first couple of tracks, Invincible is all soft underbelly, an overcooked, overweight turkey of a record.