Jennifer Lopez

Consider the new Mrs. Ritchie's immaculately yogafied tail, as magnetic as the moon in her full term, bisected by a dark and mysterious crevice. Or what about Kylie's pert sit-upons peeping out from under the rim of her hot pants like a pair of bashful apples? And, of course, the rump de jour: Ms Lopez's famously insured rear, as generous and exotic as some swollen, freshly cloven tropical fruit.

Excuse the breach-birth bias of this review, but arse-first is the manner in which these gals have chosen to market their music - and more power to them. Kylie's last album sleeve in particular was like a glossified copy of Hustler - to appropriate a phrase from that other sage of this isle, Neil Toibin: "Such a parade of tits 'n' arses - 'tis like a milking parlour!"

Consequently though, it's damn nigh impossible to address albums like J.LO on their own terms. Whether this is due to the spectacularity of the anatomy or the banality of the music is a point for the master-debaters.

But the good news is that, on her second album, Jennifer Lopez has done a spot of spring cleaning, taking out much of the Eurotrash that cluttered up her debut On The 6, and retouching her Latin (or Lah-in) roots on tracks like 'Carino' and 'Dame', both of which suggest the cast of Buena Vista Social Club meeting for cocktails at Justin's.

And speaking of Puffy, the rather agreeable lead-off single and thinly veiled memo to her paramour 'My Love Don't Cost A Thing' is a pretty superior slice of designer soul, even if it does sound like it was recorded in a laboratory, such is the clinical nature of its construction. Same goes for a good third of J.LO; tunes like 'I'm Real', 'We Gotta Talk' and 'That's The Way' - sleek, shiny surfaces with a thin smattering of sass spread on top.

The slate's not always as clean, mind you. The woeful 'La Isla Bonita'-style waddle of 'Ain't It Funny' sounds like Geri Halliwell covering bad Bee Gees on a cut price 18-30 holiday, and just as cheesy, if somewhat more forgivable, is 'Come Over', with Jen crooning, "I wanna make love babe, very slowly/Three times in a row, all night I'll go" for the boys at the back of biology class.

To be fair though, most of this record is as watertight as a duck's arse, (arses again) if just as hard to penetrate (I'll stop, I promise!). One wonders what George Clinton would have done with some of these jams. Even more tantalising, the baroque touches on 'That's Not Me' tease you as to how much better the melodies would sparkle if filtered through Prince and not Puffy's purple paisley lens.

Ultimately, J.LO is as safe a second album as any designed by committee and doomed to justify a whopping great marketing budget.

Expensive ear candy; no more, no less.