Cotton candy textures. Lollipop melodies. A wafer thin voice. We're talking about Britney Spears' Oops!... I Did It Again, right? Nay, it's that British bombshell chanteuse, Sarah Cracknell, getting her solo rocks off in gloriously cheddary fashion.

Forgive me if the above sounded like a nasty jab, because it was a jab given with the lightest of touches and a twinkle in the eye. Like many others who've swayed, smarmed and wrapped presents to Saint Etienne over the past nine-odd years, I, too, have been infatuated with the shining beauty that fronts that enigmatic pop band. I've never doubted the shallow appeal of Cracknell's wispy voice and complete lack of personality on record. To me and those of my flock, she represented an attainable goal; some sort of perfect indie mannequin you could project your fantasies onto. Perhaps we thought of her a la Prefab Sprout's "The Ice Maiden"-- the high-class, hyper-stylish beauty that was manipulative and cold, yet irresistible. But unlike Paddy, we had no illusions that we could singe her pretty blond lashes.

We also had no illusions about whether or not she was what made Saint Etienne work-- she obviously wasn't. "She could be replaced with one more from the assembly line!" we quipped. So, what would it take to get us to change our minds? A new, similar frontwoman stepping into her shoes after a split over "creative differences?" How about a Sarah Cracknell solo album? Initially, this seemed like some sort of sick joke. And damn her if she didn't confound us all by releasing an album on which neither Etienne bandmates Bob Stanley and Pete Wiggs were anywhere to be found. On top of that, she co-wrote every track. And on top of that, most of the songs were good. So, there we were back in 1997 with a really nice Cracknell album, left to wonder what Saint Etienne sound like without her. This re-release gives us another chance to evaluate the whole situation.

Fortunately (or unfortunately for you what-if'ers out there), Cracknell has continued to front the rather prolific Etienne bunch, without releasing any new solo material. Lipslide makes it abundantly clear that Ian Catt, co-writer of a few tracks on the record, is a damn fine arranger. Techno-pop refuses to die as long as every single blasted one of us has that musical sweet tooth for precision cheese. Finally, we come to realize that her lack of a distinctive, forceful voice actually doesn't matter one damn bit. Let's get real, naysayers. Can you imagine Sleater-Kinney belting out "Coastal Town?" How about Cat Power doing "Fifth Floor?" No? What about Whitney Houston belting about a sensitive English lad on "Ready or Not?" Hopefully, this is getting through to you.

The bottom line is that Cracknell's voice suits these songs. Despite the fact that she doesn't have many tricks in her vocal bag, her keen sense of pitch makes those upper-register harmonies a real treat. Unfortunately for those who loved her ultra-soprano wind-chime vocal lines on early Etienne records, she stays in a relatively middling range for the better part of this record.

Blond dance-pop diva. Six or seven people working on the record. It sounds like a page out of a Madonna biography. But if we can grudgingly admit that Madonna pulled it off, surely we can give as much credit to Cracknell and her co-writers, right? Sure, we can! This is dance-pop fluff of the highest order. Anyone who wants to challenge me on that can go to hell with headphones glued to their ears, a discman with batteries that never die, and Mandy Moore's So Real on shuffle-repeat. Then you will know true pain.

The tracks on Lipslide are accomplished synth-pop productions with relatively fluid writing, appropriately simplistic lyrical content, and almost disgustingly memorable melodies. Things get shaken up a little bit here and there-- Ian Catt's Spectorian sheen on "Can't Stop Now" turns Cracknell into a whitebread Ronette (I'm going with Ronnie, actually) faster than you can get up the energy to groan. "Oh Boy, the Feeling When You Held My Hand" is a drumless, acoustic guitar-driven Latin number which draws a simple poignancy from its pared down arrangement.

For a twelve-track album, there's remarkably little throwaway filler, although it's highly likely that certain unnamed individuals in certain unnamed publications may consider the entire thing filler. However, select tracks fall short of the mark due to generic, by-the-motions writing ("Desert Baby") and, disturbingly, sounding a whole lot like Berlin ("4 Months, 2 Weeks"). So, let us sit back and once again reflect on Cracknell's minor triumph over the daunting obstacles we all placed before her. We treated her like a poodle. "Jump through hoops," we said. "We dare you." She did us one better by throwing the hoop up in the air, setting it on fire, jumping through it, and giving us one of those lovely fingers-- probably the middle one. We surrender, Sarah. How about a kiss?

-Dan Gardopee