Jeffree Star
Beauty Killer

Producer:
God’s Paparazzi & Nine Others

Popsicle Records, 2009

Rating:

Here is Subzero! Now Plain Zero!

Being able to release a song on iTunes is as easy as building a MySpace page. Therefore, it was only a matter of time before iTunes experienced its first wave of indie music rejects schlepping the moniker of “Only Available on iTunes” as if Apple ever gave anyone a handfuls worth of musical credibility. So, at the behest of one of my co-workers, I was implored to download “Beauty Killer.” I adamantly refused until said person gave me a fifteen dollar gift card. Hey, it’s not my money. What’s the worst that could happen? Apparently, a lot.

Jeffree Star is no more than a club kid with a web cam and daddy issues. I won’t waste this article on his views of gender distortion or my own as the subject of this review since this entire ordeal is based around his terrible taste in music. Jeffree Star may have a million 16 year old girls buying up his album, but the truth is, anyone with an I.Q. above their shoe size and a granule of brain power will laugh this garbage right into the depths of obscurity where it belongs and so rightly deserves.

Let’s start out by saying if there was a Hell, it’d have twelve levels made up of each one of Star’s tracks, which get progressively worse and harder to navigate the deeper you descend. What Jeffree Star is attempting is not of itself just an exercise in total vanity and figuring out how the latest expansion of Fruity Loops works, but rather he has turned a dissertation on Marilyn Manson’s “The Dope Show” into a full length album; fifteen years too late. The drug in question isn’t a drug so much as it is a euphemism for fame and stardom. Considering Jeffree Star has risen to even mediocre levels of the stardom he so desperately desires and yet fails at making fun of, is delicious irony.

With track names like “Louis Vuitton Body Bag”, “Fame & Riches, Rehab Bitches” and “Love Rhymes With Fuck You”, there’s no wonder one can’t help but visualize a smoky, back room meeting between Danzig and Fall Out Boy where they did nothing but try to combine song titles by passing a notebook back and forth across a table for six hours. You really have to question whether or not this whole experience is an elaborate joke or that this gogo dancer needs to put down the microphone and check himself into anger management.

Jeffree Star doesn’t sing so much as he reinforces gay stereotypes with elongated, breathy whispers. Even Autotune can’t correct this one-range octave failure. Every single track on this album, which is produced by a cavalcade of rotating chefs, achieves audio impossibility by shoving the worst in rock, electronica, and rap into forty two minutes of ear bludgeoning confusion and distortion. Added to this melee is guest band Breathe Carolina, who manage not only to bastardize the screamo genre, but sound like they just woke up and couldn’t care less what they’re supposed to be singing. This is not a music album; this is a deluded ego trying to a find valid meaning to its existence, put to digital format, and cranked up to 11.

If there’s one thing one can appreciate about this reprehensible excuse for an album, it’s that it will, without a doubt, serve as a shining beacon of what not to do when it comes to making good music. Will it be a success? More than likely, considering that the album was not constructed out of creativity or clarity. This was engineered and spit-polished to a shine that will be devoured by the opiate snorting masses of the demographic it was created for.

In regards to what this album really means to Jeffree Star, he responded: “Beauty Killer is my way of saying ‘fuck you’ to what everyone’s idea of what beauty stands for.” Well Jeff, this review is my way of saying the exact same thing to what YOUR idea of what music stands for.

Bottom Line: Mercilessly ridicule anyone you know for buying this album and buy anything from Goldfrapp, Fischerspooner, or Peaches. You’re Welcome.

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