Imagine that you're the president of a record label; not a branch of some corporate conglomerate, but the type of label you'd dream of starting if you chose to dream of such things. You're in your office one morning getting your daily dose of Pitchfork off the net when Ronnie Spector walks in. Right off the bat, her Phil Spector days come to mind. "Hey, Ron. Nice Phil Spector days ya got there," you'd say, gesturing her to take a seat.

But wait! By the time you remember her from that cheesy Eddie Money song, it's too late to kick her out. Over the course of the next hour and a half, Spector pitches an album to you, only it's not really an album; she only has enough material for an EP. She explains how she covered a couple of oldies and a couple of tracks that Joey Ramone wrote, thinking maybe you'd release it. She has Joey in tow, which is encouraging, but he looks like he's been awake for weeks. (Plus, he's your grandpa's age.) This isn't sounding like such a good idea.

In fact, I'd say it's a lousy idea. Ronnie Spector's finished product-- a 20-minute EP with nauseating "psychedelic" (read: affordable) cover art-- is devoid of ingenuity or intrigue of any sort. Spector merely sings the same shit she was belting out 30 years ago, adding a couple of Ramones tunes at half speed and replacing the Wall of Sound with some trite guitar distortion. Further details are difficult, as I spent most of the disc's duration enveloped in an incredulous pondering of how the record was ever released (the latest iteration of which is submitted over for your approval).

So, let's just suffice to say that She Talks to Rainbows isn't worth a red cent. If you care so deeply about Spector's career, I personally guarantee you'll be more pleased with her output from the 1960s. It's pretty obvious when you think about it.

-Neil Lieberman