Killer Love

Remember when you first clapped eyes on Hawaiian beauty Nicole Scherzinger? Sassily belting out the unbeatable hook from ‘Don’t Cha’, swinging her ponytail in the faces of half a dozen other unidentifiable Pussycat Dolls and grinding all up on Busta Rhymes like a muscular miniature pony, f rom top to tail, she looked every bit the pop superhero.
There was never any question that the most talented Doll would release a solo record, but sadly, it’s been far from a seamless Beyoncé-style transition for 32-year-old Scherzinger. Work on this debut began in 2005, and continued until the singer had recorded a whopping 75 songs. During this time, she presumably rang up everyone in her contacts list for help, from Gary Lightbody to will.i.am and including surefire magic makers Kanye West, Pharrell Williams and Timbaland. The album, titled Her Name Is Nicole, was subsequently tossed on the glittering Hollywood Hills compost heap (twice!), although a few tracks made it onto later Pussycat Dolls releases.
By the time Scherzinger got around to giving her solo record a third go, there was a new hot producer in town, and the raven-haired vixen wasted no time in drafting in Lady Gaga’s right hand man RedOne to clean up five years’ worth of mess.
The resulting 14-tracker, Killer Love, speaks for itself… through song titles like ‘Desperate’, ‘Poison’ and ‘Casualty’. If that’s not a clear enough indicator, invest 30 seconds of your time with the tragic ‘You Will Be Loved’, which kicks off with a kind of romantic yodel. Yep, Nicole Prescovia Elikolani Valiente Scherzinger yodels.
At the very best, Killer Love is one part Leona Lewis-brand belters to two parts stomping Eurodisco filler, all layered up with handfuls of directionless, breathy whoah-oh-oh’s. ‘Club Banger Nation’ is the closest thing to a hit, but the sequence of Ministry Of Sound-esque lead in, a cutely-purred bridge and Shakira-style vocal barks feels inexcusably odd. ‘Wet’ has a passable hook, but if it’s a moist floor filler your after, you’re better off going all-out on the expletives and spinning Snoop Dogg’s single of the same name.
I can’t decide whether Sting or Enrique Iglesias was the more ridiculous choice for a duet (the former sounds distorted and distressed, the latter sounds unappealing as ever), but it’s not as if Scherzinger’s perfectly capable pipes are treated with all that much adoration, either.
With nary a glory moment in sight, there’s no room for sitting on the fence with this one. In an age where pretty much anyone’s vocal prowess is liable to get choked with tuneless thumps, Killer Love is the most perfect example of vacuous Europop drivel I’ve come across. Sometimes, even on the dancefloor, whoah-oh-oh just ain’t enough.