So it finally all makes sense to me; I’ve found an explanation / excuse for the non-stop rotation of Avril Lavigne‘s newest disc, The Best Damn Thing, in the ol’ tankPOD over the past few weeks. The album is the long-lost follow-up to (read: spiritual sibling of) the Josie and the Pussycats soundtrack that came out a few years ago. That particular soundtrack was one of those albums that almost nobody heard, but it was met with great appreciation and devotion by the few to whose ears its power-pop-punk found its way.
Lavigne has taken her pop-tart mall-brat persona and kicked it up a notch. The new album is heavy on the addictive rockers and rather light on the treacly ballads that marred her past efforts critically, but can probably be attributed with her phenomenal sales record. So the biggest difference is that she’s produced an album that has nine guilty pleasures for the Stereogum crowd instead of the usual single and a half that made their way on to previous albums.
The other difference is that Lavigne honestly seems to be trying to find her way as a lyricist. While kick-off single “Girlfriend” is a tune filled with as empty a set of platitudes as you’re going to find in the Top 40 today, she does try to stretch on a tune like “Ridiculous.” In that song she captures the early rush of that whole love and attraction thing, commonly enjoyed by most newly mets or, in her case, newly weds, and ends up with a song that mom and dad can relate to just as easily as a twelve-year-old experiencing her first major crush.
And then there are some tunes, like “I Can Do Better,” where Lavigne is content to let her inner ass-kicking bad girl take over and tell some dickhead it’s time to hit the road. For the one or two missteps she makes (there is one particularly lame rhyme about being bummed when some dude doesn’t pick up the check, which sort of picks away at her alpha-female persona) most of her songs rise to the challenge of trying to bridge the gap between junior high and the mortgage paying demographic.
The Best Damn Thing isn’t a guilty pleasure, because you have nothing to feel guilty about as you pump your fist, and leather bound wrist, into the air and sing along.
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