Katy Perry review, 143: Painfully dated and glaringly out of touch
It’s not an understatement to say Katy Perry’s latest album campaign has been a disaster. Between her woeful lead single “Woman’s World” and her non-explanation as to why she chose to work with controversial producer Dr Luke (Łukasz Gottwald), none of the events of the past months have helped stir any goodwill, or even anticipation, for the pop star’s first album in four years.
The timing of this comeback is somewhat awkward. We’re a distracted nation – even major releases from Billie Eilish, Ariana Grande and Beyoncé have been met with less fanfare than you’d expect. Fans are busy genuflecting at the altar of three new goddesses: over the past 12 months, Charli XCX, Chappell Roan and Sabrina Carpenter have set a new (higher) standard for the genre. Perry, meanwhile, is still trying to recover from a series of dud albums and a palpable lack of any real hits since 2013’s trap-infused “Dark Horse”.
Perhaps that is why she felt compelled to return to the man behind some of her most successful releases, who last year settled nearly a decade of lawsuits and countersuits over pop singer Kesha’s allegation that he drugged and raped her (Gottwald has always vehemently denied her accusations). He has songwriting credits on all but one song on 143, and his presence leaves a sour taste on a record ostensibly written from a woman’s perspective – never mind the fact the majority of Perry’s co-writers are men.
Everything on 143 – the number of letters in “I love you” on a pager – feels painfully dated, steeped in a misunderstanding about the Nineties nostalgia that permeates much of 2020s culture. Most of the songs are driven by house-influenced beats, dragging the record down into a bass-heavy quagmire.
“I’m His, He’s Mine” – on which Perry samples Crystal Waters’s 1991 track “Gypsy Woman” – is perhaps the most glaring indication of how detached she has become. I suppose the cost of living crisis doesn’t come up much during her dinners with Jeff Bezos but spinning Waters’ anthem (about a homeless woman the artist used to see regularly outside a Washington hotel) into an insipid, forgettable club bop warning other women off your man is certainly the biggest clunker on an album full of them.
Weirdly, Perry returns to the refrain of the 1991 track for “Crush” as she attempts her own version of Kylie Minogue’s “Padam Padam”, singing: “My heart goes la-da-da-di…” over an empty beat. Her collaborators, too, seem unable to muster much enthusiasm. We’re dealt a shockingly bad few bars from 21 Savage on “Gimme Gimme”, a trap-lite ditty about a late-night hookup. Fellow Dr Luke collaborator Kim Petras emulates Charli XCX on the vocodered “Gorgeous”.
There are a few glimmers of the magnetism that made Perry a star. Her stirring, Eighties-tinged ballad “All the Love” is a highlight that seemingly references her marriage to actor Orlando Bloom, and possibly also touches on her divorce from British comedian-turned-conspiracy theorist Russell Brand. It’s one of Perry’s best vocal performances since 2020’s “Never Really Over” – one of her few successes of the last five years.
Perry was always at her best when she was being playful. In her heyday, that attitude transpired on tongue-in-cheek bops like “California Gurls” and “I Kissed a Girl”. On 143, that’s been replaced by a weariness (or perhaps wariness) of the industry she once dominated. Most songs here have an underlying hesitance, too preoccupied by their commercial aspirations to have any real fun.
