If you want the distilled sound of global hypercapitalism, David Guetta is your man. A genial, workaholic Frenchman, he has created the sound of superclubs from Miami to Dubai to Kuala Lumpur – the sort of clubs where the VIP section is bigger than the main dance floor, with Guetta's own “F*ck Me I'm Famous” parties in Ibiza as the ideal model – and, thanks to the trickle-down effect, the sound of every shopping mall and taxi from here to eternity. His sound is the cheesiest of Nineties commercial dance music given a turbo boost with every possible megastar from the worlds of rap and R&B relentlessly asserting their heterosexuality on top. It's weapons-grade stuff, thickly layered with fizzing sound (ironically given the album's title), purpose built to cut through any chatter or background sound, lodging in the brain of even the most distracted or brain-dead passer-by, and it is – mostly – entirely foul.
Or rather, given tracks are mainly fine in themselves. They're craftsmanlike generic pop-dance tunes, full of vim, certainly not objectionable at all as pop radio fodder, with rap verses by some serious talents: Ludacris, Nicki Minaj, Snoop Dogg (although many are ruined by droning autotuned vocals by Taio Cruz, Flo Rida, Akon, Will.I.Am... or Snoop Dogg). The straighter vocal tunes with Minaj and Jennifer Hudson are even fun – not a patch on Guetta's previous hit “When Love Takes Over” with Kelly Rowland, but fun. Cumulatively, though (and there are 22 TRACKS of this nonsense!), it's like injecting fizzy energy drinks mixed with meths into your eyeballs. While electrocuting yourself. Over and over again. The lowest common denominator just got lower.
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