nd bam! The first thing you hear on Kissin Time is a low kick drum, but on its trail is a synth click-and-shuffle, and what sounds like rhinoceroses breakdancing to an industrial clash. “It’s time for sex with strangers / it’s time for someone else” our chanteuse croons. “Time for sex with someone else” sounds positively odd coming from a sixty-year-old’s mouth, but Marianne Faithfull, that fabulous junkie sex goddess, makes it seem playful, dirty, and what’s more, you like it when she sings it. The first thing that you notice about this song, however, isn’t her ravaged voice, but that beat. No sir, that’s not Marianne behind the production deck, that’s everyone’s favorite ironic booty—rapper, Mr. Beck Hansen — and his club beat that doesn’t hit too hard is this song. But that’s just the problem with this album. No matter how hard Ms. Faithfull spins yarn and waxes poetic, you get the impression this isn’t her record. It’s Jarvis Cocker, Damon Albarn, Beck, and Billy Corgan’s record. There is not one song on here that is solely written by Marianne Faithfull, and it shows.


It’s just such a bummer to know that one of the last great rock muses now has to resort to her version of Supernatural. There’s nothing wrong with collaborators — and Faithfull has picked some good ones — but the quality seems to be directly linked to who is behind each song. The best songs are the ones that feature the superstars, and the worst are the ones that are written by Etienne Daho and Dave Stewart. Daho’s “The Pleasure Song” is just embarrassing — liken it to Bowie’s “I’m Afraid Of Americans,” with the elder statesman resorting to generic sounding guitar and machine crunches, and a synth opening that sounds like something straight out of a videogame. Only until Faithfull’s remarkable, distraught voice comes in does the song spring to life. Stewart offers up (unsurprisingly) a song that sounds just like the Eurythmics, with glazed—over, lazy production, in “Song For Nico,” a total suck—up ballad. “She doesn’t know what she wants ... yesterday is gone / there’s just today / no more ... didn’t like Lou Reed ... Andrew was up to his old tricks...” Blah blah blah blah.


Billy Corgan, on the other hand, a lyricist who offers up vague musings about life sucking, is an awful mix with Faithfull — that sort of thing isn’t really her speed, but you have to hand in to Corgan in the production department. On “Wherever I Go,” he lays down a whitewash of acoustics and high—hat in Pumpkins—lite style, but “wherever I go / I want you to know / it’s you,” pales in comparison to the next guest, Jarvis Cocker.


“Sliding Through Life On Charm” is hands—down this album’s best track, simply because Cocker gives Faithfull what she’s great at: some great sleazy lines. “Suburban shits who want some class / all queue up to kiss my ass,” is great to hear from the one who’s seen it all, but the song really kicks it into high gear when Faithfull barks “mister you have finally met your match / now everybody wants to kiss my snatch / to go where God knows who has gone before.” Oh man! In an age where her contemporaries Paul McCartney and Mick Jagger sing about visions of paradise and freedom, it’s simply fantastic to hear someone stand up and talk about something a little different. When those Pulp keyboards and beeps roll in, you don’t really care that Jarvis is the force behind this song, even when Faithfull reverts to publicly musing “I wonder why the schools don’t teach anything these days / like how to fall from grace” like Cocker does in “I Spy” — it’s purely sensational.


A cover of Beck’s “Nobody’s Fault But My Own,” produced by the man himself, seems a little unnecessary (like the worst covers, it doesn’t expand on the original), but on the album’s final closing track, a completely different sound rolls in. The shiny production is dropped in favor of Graham Coxon’s pinball, greasy guitar riff, and a wheel—churning bass line courtesy of Alex James. “Kissin Time” is co—written by Damon Albarn, and features his very own band (Blur) under a trance achingly familiar of his explorations in Mali, namely supplied by the understated drum beat. Under the “ooh, ooh, ooh”s supplied by the band, Faithfull creates a climax that comes three times, every chorus, sending this stately rocker sky—high under her accentuated and held—out wails.


As the song slowly echoes out into oblivion, you would only hope there was more. Even though it doesn’t seem like this album was Marianne Faithfull’s true vision, it’s still pretty good music — and isn’t that what’s important?