Ms. Keri, baby

Someone I know once said that he never listened to R&B because all that performers ever did was to snivel about love lost or unrequited. Sure. But that isn't accidental: Sometimes love knocks you down, as Keri Hilson says. This has been so since humans evolved the concept of romantic love as the basis for marriage and courtship. Either we sing about it, give ourselves over to it in dance - or risk taking a drubbing.
On his latest podcast, the New Yorker's resident music critic, Sasha Frere-Jones, argues that our well-greased American pop/R&B machine simply cannot produce "witty, brash" singers. Instead, he says, the Britneys and Beyonces are "ciphers" rewarded for hewing as close to the Stepford Songstress packaging they get coming off the industry assembly line. So while the UK's Lily Allen drums up clever symbolism to excoriate bloodthirsty bloggers and paparazzi, our Beyonce wags, shakes, and J-Sets to a catchy riff on marital aspirations. But in Keri, who marries many of the seemingly opposing virtues of red-white-and-blue pop and Britpop, I've found a defense. The wordplay is spot on if not erudite (does it need to be? check her well-placed jabs at Sasha Farce and Ciara), the music infectious, thumping, and always comes together in flawless 3-minute bites (Hello, Timb). Album 'drops' March 24.