Pitchfork

It's not surprising that the verses of this song sound like Evanescence's Amy Lee singing over an Interpol outtake, nor is it a shocker that the guitar solo in the bridge is lifted squeal-for-squeal from "Maps". It's not even that shocking that Ms. Clarkson is the singer. The surprise is this stroke of genius was written by none other than scintillating Swedish svengali Max Martin, the writer of biff-bang-poppers like "I Want It That Way" and "Baby One More Time" and, by proxy, the man that gave Kelly Clarkson her career. Here, he's giving Ms. Clarkson some hands-on attention, shucking the earnest corn pone sheen that made Kelly oh so very. (Very cloying, very chirpy, very bland-- take your pick.) Here, she's diffident, defiant, and mad as hell. She leans on every "yeah, yeah" like she's too cool for drama school, and then kicks out the jams (and the good-for-nothing jerk) on the chorus. Even at such volumes, Kelly can't escape her wholesome roots, which actually works to the song's benefit-- when you've got a nice girl like her ranting and raving, you know you've done something wrong.

Don't go thinking that this is some redemptive move up for Max, though. If anything, Max is just following the trend line drawn by Avril Lavigne and her spunky "punk rock" contemporaries. Besides, going from writing popalicious teen-disco tracks to writing popalicious New New York tracks is a lateral move. Both are aiming for the same pressure points, even if their fighting techniques differ slightly. Love is love, unrequited love is cool until it starts to fester and stink, and passive-aggressive manipulators (oblivious or otherwise) can go to 1st base with the third rail until they stink of Sex Panther. Set it to Steinway or to Stratocaster, it's still the same old song. Regardless of how, whenever someone fits the pathos and triumph of such an experience into a three-minute cherry bomb like this, you pay your respects in the proper way-- you turn the damn thing up.