{grate 2.5}Hard Candy is an apt title for the latest evolution of
everyone’s favorite yoga-bending, Kabbalah-praying, sex-oozing,
controversy-kindling queen of pop: Madonna. But maybe she confused meditation
with mindlessness because the empty-headed lyrics and buzzing synthpop of Hard
Candy is a lot like buying one of those generic bags of gummy bears: good for a
little sugar, but nothin’ special. Where the famously shameless superstar has
self-accredited production rights to her hits since 1986, we find ol’ Madge stepping
down from her high horse and handing over the reigns to big-name producers in a
desperate attempt to salvage what 2006’s Confessions on a Dance Floor
destroyed.

And it shows. Madonna’s deity status gives her the freedom
to pluck the most highly craved treats of the industry at whim, and for her
first single she chose two of its most nutritionally devoid stars — Timbaland
and Mouseketeer JT — to lend her newfound pop relevance. Alas, “4 Minutes” is a
little too relevant; the rehashed beats from Timbaland’s Shock Value and
marching band din drown out her characteristic sass, and any anonymous face
could be auto-tuned to fill its tired margins.

So why not Britney, or Nelly, or Gwen-ny? Well, as Her
Madgesty informs us on “She’s Not Me,” while other wannabes might “steal [her]
looks and lingerie,” none can replicate the true divinity of Madonna.
Unfortunately, the song itself (complete with whisper-breathing and
electro-pinging) owes more to Pharrell’s styling than personal talent, proving
that even repulsive amounts of money can’t make the songstress special. On
another Pharrell-produced track, “Candy Store,” Madonna invites us to “come
into [her] store,” because her “sugar is sweet.” You gotta give the hardbody
credit; she’s a midlife sex symbol and still pretty sweet — just not any
sweeter than every other crooner on the current MTV circuit.

Clubs around the world will undoubtedly embrace Hard Candy,
but as far as “transformation” goes, Madonna might be getting too old to
confront another identity crisis. Relying on the ’80s synth that made her a
lipstick idol and on the guys who are paid to manufacture pop princesses, our
favorite diva fails to achieve little more than mediocrity.