Weekly Fecal

When Jagged Little Pill was crammed down our throats a decade ago, Alanis Morissette offered some balance to the cock-heavy Billboard chart — a preverbal yin to the alternative nation’s engorged yang. She was chiquita-con-guitar who could yelp about blowing her ex in a theater and still make it seem almost, well, empowering. To commemorate the multi-platinum album’s tin anniversary with an acoustic re-recording of the entire original, seems, in comparison, a desperate "remember me" plea for the long-fallen chart queen. Too, the "buzz" concept of unplugging for extra mileage, as tired as this album’s Starbucks-exclusive prerelease (on sale wherever your favorite half-caff-double-tall-vanilla-soy-lattes are sold, June 13), is downright reprehensible. That Morissette’s songwriting (which has been profoundly assisted by L.A. hit-hack-for-hire, Glen Ballard) has become so barren that scavenging tunes of yore for a cash grab today is a truly tough thing to swallow.

Nate Cavalieri writes about music for Metro Times. Send comments to [email protected].

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