Dammit, Janet. Jackson's had her ups and downs, like everybody else, but I was ready to love this record. Just to be sure I wasn't being unfair or getting nostalgic in Technicolor, I went and listened to Nasty, Rhythm Nation and Control before making my decision about this disc. Where she seemed to naturally radiate sweetness, grit, street cred and sex appeal, now it seems she's trying too desperately to convey all these things at once, especially the sex. She alternates between the super-cheese of Strawberry Bounce and telling us how she likes to curl up with a good book in the boring spoken-word interludes, then back to the smut of Warmth, which includes lyrics like "My hands stroking up and down / but nothing can compare to the warmth of my mouth." Ew. Tone it down a notch, would ya? Show, don't tell. I like porn as much as the next person, but if I wanted to hear a phone sex operator, I'd call one. Too bad the sweet melodies get lost in all the embarrassing crap.