Over the last few years Luscious Jackson have gone from being luscious to Jackson. When their Grand Royal debut, In Search of Manny, surfaced, fans accented the "lush" in the band's name with juicy, pursed lips. When the name rolls off the tongue these days, one is more apt to lay emphasis on the harsh, bland "jackson" with a nasal Midwestern cheerleader's whine. As trite as this linguistic difference may seems, it's terribly important in understanding the soft decline of this once trendy band.

"Luscious" conjures images of ripe booty, down comforters, velvet candles, and strawberries floating in a tepid pool of baby oil. "Jackson" sounds so pedestrian, like the countless bar bands that grow bleached goatees and sign to... well, Capitol Records. In the past, Luscious ground the pelvis of funk against the thigh of rough acoustic jams. Their sultry swerve fit perfectly with the plump lips of bassist and guitarist Gabrielle Glaser, the kind of girl you dream of finding in a Long Island pool hall wrapped in tight Jordache denim. But on Electric Honey, Jackson seem content to plod away on the same material, watered down with buckets of posh studio trickery. It's this element that's made Jackson's soul sound about as black as Edgar Winter. Perhaps this explains all the studio photos in the liner notes. (Gotta make sure you get your money's worth! Right, girls?)

But it's all about context. Put a soup label on a can of soup, and it's functional and boring. Put it on a t-shirt and it's a hit. Similarly, grouping Luscious Jackson with pop bands leads to banal results. However, think of them as a house band, and their stock rises. After all Electric Honey could be the title of a Oaktown 357, Deee-Lite or Technotronic album.

"Nervous Breakthrough" opens with polished thumps and tissing claps. Y'know, the ol' um- tiss- um- tiss. (Although, in this case it's um- um- um- um- tiss- um- um- tiss- um- tiss.) But the lyrics' wordplay is clever, if not a little meaningless. Sadly, the beats and rhymes never get much better. "I'm an underwater freulein/ All I know is my rhyme" and "I'm a sexy hypnotist" drip from Jill Cunniff's lips as if she's chewing handfuls of better lyrics, and these phrases are just what happen to come stumbling out.

Luscious Jackson's attempts at crunchy Blondie pop and sliding country strive for diversity but fit like bikinis on Inuits. But what really surprises me is that anyone at Capitol Records should know that 15 songs is entirely too much of this band to digest at once. Of course, like the great house band they are, they sound vital on 12"s and mix tapes. I'm certain you'll hear Electric Honey in the clubs, and that should be enough.

-Brent DiCrescenzo