That's not a typo. If only because Britney Spears Inc.TM has generated enough capital over the years, she's managed to afford producers and songwriters who can capably negotiate her voice and notoriety into a brilliant, exciting pop-dance album.
It feels like critical career suicide to award such a high rating to that innocence-losing, scrub-marrying, genital-exposing, child-mishandling, head-shaving lunatic called Britney Spears. But, following in her ex-makeout-partner Madonna's footsteps, she's made her own Confessions On A Dance Floor. The production is glossy and futuristic to a nearly avant-garde point, yet every song is a hit.
And the confessions do abound. Over a fat synth lick, Piece Of Me coyly subverts the tabloids while breaking down the public's insatiable need for Ms. American Dream in an eerily cold robo-voice.
The 808-march of Toy Soldier finds Spears on the prowl for a real man, someone who "won't be just comin' over" because she's "so damn glad that's over." Importantly, none of these lyrics are hers.
Don't get it twisted - Britney Spears, actual human being, is negligible here. To the producers, her voice is a sample, as is her image to the songwriters. But Bloodshy & Avant (the guys who did Toxic), Timbaland apprentice Danja (SexyBack), T-Pain, Pharrell, etc, have manipulated those elements into something entertaining.