Pitchfork

My career counselor once advised me to seek disappointment. No doubt Mr. Thirp thought he was imparting in that vaguely oriental, gnomic nugget some great wisdom that would see me through my turbulent adolescence and ready me for the tangles and thickets of adulthood. Well, I have found disappointment, and I'm ready to testify that I was not prepared.

Now I'm ready to confess that I'm not the most dyed- in- the- wool Pet Shop Boys fan, but I do appreciate urbanity, wry wit, sly verbal parries and a fine, stompin' four- to- the- floor amyl groove. But I'm so upset, it's the utmost I can do to stifle my tears, lest I short out my laptop. Nightlife, the follow-up to the Boys'sizzling fusion of Latin rhythms, deep house and jaded insouciance, Bilingual, is a mush of half- arsed trance, lyrics worthy of a late- middle- aged romance authoress and misguided R&B. But it's Neil Tennant's wanton disregard for his own talents that's the real shame here.

Now, I believed Tennant wholeheartedly when he sang "Do I Have To?" and "I Would Normally Do This Kind of Thing." I swooned when he crooned the chestnutty "Always On My Mind." He were almost the Noel Coward of dance pop-- the Cole Porter of Mies van der Rohe- furnished house! But now he tries us with clunky would- be aphorisms and bon mots. Did he think we wouldn't gag on lines like, "Hear a song/ That's the bomb!/ If you don't get that mix/ It's gone '86!" and "When loneliness induces fear/ Like waves against a ramshackle pier"?

Nightlife opens with the Rollo- produced and consequently extremely radio- friendly, "For Your Own Good," a cautionary tale about the dangers of paying for sex when Neil Tennant is waiting to give you a cuddle and sympathy for free. Of course, one shouldn't expect a Pet Shop Boys album to open like a Jansky Noise/ VVM soundclash, but the rococo blandness of "For Your Own Good," which relies heavily on samples from Rollo's Faithless project, sets one up for the mightiest disappointment since the lonesome evening you discovered that you couldn't perform auto- fellatio.

Much in the same, erm... vein does Tennant work out his theological conundrums and his highest falsetto on "Closer to Heaven." The song isn't the rapturous disco paean to the profound beauty of the Trinity as one might have believed, though. Rather, Tennant dwells on the fact that whomever he's smitten with is-- gasp!-- both an angel and a devil. Yeah, only in a dance track could one hope to astound a captive audience with such insight. I just hope those shimmying to this effort are astoundingly bolloxed on a nine inch line of Special K snorted off some rank club urinal.

Matters marginally improve with "I Don't Know What You Want But I Can't Give It Anymore." Here, Tennant develops and extemporizes on the theme of material gain and its inability to satisfy the desires which prowl our base natures. Or else he reckoned that being Everything But the Girl for a day would be beezer fun. But unlike ETBG's Tracey Thorn, Tennant doesn't have the dramatic vocal skill to make this song anything more than first- single- off- the- album radio fodder.

Yeah, Nightlife has tracks that you could play on the radio, and then there are those that should be played only to those willing to be subjected to the utmost degradation and dehumanization. How else are we supposed to describe the computer- as- metaphor conceit of "Happiness is an Option" (as though emotions were selected in the preferences dialog box of the human mind) or the undying irritation induced by "Vampires."

It doesn't pain me in the slightest not to delve into the swill that marks out the collaboration with Kylie Minogue ("In Denial")-- suffice to say it's an ever- so- dramatic dialog between a daughter and her gay dad. But the rank slurry that is "New York City Boy" demands my attention (and your avoidance).

Superficially, the track is a sort of coming home song and a reply to the Boys' version of the Village People's "Go West." But, taking a second to examine "New York City Boy" (for that's all you'll need), you'll soon realize that it's actually just a blatant rip off of that song. The track boasts a chantably identical chorus in addition to the same massed choir belting out the song in the worst Andrew Lloyd Webber fashion. Tennant barely makes an appearance; I hope that his decision to cop out of vocal duties was prompted by his shame and putting his band's name to such goop.

One moral I've drawn from this wretched record: don't have high expectations of pop stars. Despite their protestations, they'll never fail to let you down. Despite myself, I'll seek solace in my beloved Gay Dad album.