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The Guardian on Paris Hilton:

You read her CV and boggle at what wildly improbable occupation she
might turn her hand to next. Spot-welding? Cognitive neuropsychology?

Alas, no: it's singing. Lest one carp, Hilton has been quick to point
out that singing is a vocation for which she is eminently skilled. "I
know music," she reassured the Sunday Times children's section. "I
hear it every single day."

While this obviously gives Hilton a massive advantage over those who
have never heard any music and thus believe it to be a variety of
cheese, there remains the nagging suspicion that this might not
represent sufficient qualification for a career as a singer, in much
the same way as knowing what a child is does not fully equip you for a
career as a consultant paediatrician.

But as Turn It Up cranks into life, you realise why Hilton felt it
necessary to confirm to the Sunday Times that she knew what music was.
She sings like a woman who has heard of something called singing,
can't be sure of exactly what it might entail, but is fairly certain
you do something a bit like this. She sounds both distracted and bored
stiff, as if making an album is keeping her from the more serious
business of standing around a nightclub in a pair of really enormous

On Stars Are Blind, the combination of tinny cod-reggae and
your-call-is-being-held-in-a-queue vocal technique results in
something so plasticky, it's perversely enjoyable. Elsewhere, Hilton's
audible lack of interest torpedoes her own chances. Someone has
encouraged her to make erotically charged squeals of affirmation and
panting noises, with deleterious results. "Yah! Uh-huh-huh! Yah!" she
huffs, like a Sloane Ranger having an asthma attack.

Listening to her sing Rod Stewart's Do Ya Think I'm Sexy, you are
gripped by the fear that civilisation as we know it is doomed and that
brimstone is going to start raining from the sky any minute. It
doesn't, but a sense of terrible foreboding is further stoked by the
sleeve notes, which make reference to "all my albums to come".
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