Demi Lovato, for those lacking the advanced skills to use Wikipedia, is a 16-year-old actor-cum-musician from Dallas, Texas who was thrust into the public eye due to a starring role in the hit Disney feature film Camp Rock, a syrupy musical vehicle for the aesthetically faultless Jonas Brothers.
Lovato’s debut album – last year’s ‘Don’t Forget’ – is fucking amazing. Not in a ‘so-bad-it’s-good’ hipster-bait way either, but in a genuinely unironic way. It lingers, nude and unashamed, in the higher reaches of my Last.fm charts, like a shining beacon of pure and untouched pop-rock in the otherwise murky seas of all that other faux-experimental shite I shove into my ears. Don’t get me wrong, I love ‘indie’ music – it’s my wife, husband and wobbly-toothed child – but delicious, debonair, delightful Demi Lovato’s music takes substantial residence in the dark corners of my earbrains.
Demi was introduced to me by an American friend, who divulged to me that she couldn’t stop listening to ‘Don’t Forget’, despite the High School Musical/Jonas Brothers (who, incidentally, feature on a track and are credited as co-writers on a portion of the album) connotations. She admitted to bi-daily singalongs in her car on her way to and from work (and I quote: “I don’t care who sees me when I’m singing with Demi”). Curiousity piqued, I gave a few minutes’ attention to her Myspace, and found myself an hour later, covered head to toe in glorious emotion, with trigger finger itchily clicking ‘play’ over and over again.
In a moment of drunken clarity, I ordered the album from the US (Special Edition, natch), and haven’t looked back.
‘Don’t Forget’ surprised me by taking in a wide gamut of styles; grounded but rebellious teen-rock in ‘La La Land’ (sample lyric: “Who says I can’t wear my Converse with my dress?/Baby, that’s just me”), a jaunty call-and-response number featuring the aforementioned Jonas Brothers in ‘On The Line’, introverted minimalism leading into arena-destroying choruses on the title track, and even soulful pop that reminds me of fucking Toni Braxton or something on the bonus track ‘Behind Enemy Lines’. The album, taken as a whole, is a breathless romp through the dusty corridors of modern mainstream pop music. Lovato’s voice shines throughout, often confidently sailing through surprisingly apt Mariah/Aguilera-esque lines, with nary a hint of Auto-Tune (to this ear, anyway).
Fun fact: For all the fame Demi has acheived with Camp Rock and ‘Don’t Forget’s brand of glossy, low-maintenance pop, her favourite band are Norweigian black metal outfit Dimmu Borgir. DIMMU FUCKING BORGIR. Not Limp Bizkit, Slipknot, Staind, Puddle Of Mudd or any of America’s middling college radio ‘metal’. No, it’s DIMMU FUCKING BORGIR. This is no translucent Avril Lavigne, created to line the pockets of hair dye manufacturers. Miss Lovato is the real deal.
I think I’ve written enough, now. Go give it a listen. Also, follow her on Twitter. This one time, she posted a picture she drew of herself with a spider or something in Microsoft Paint, and it was hilarious:
I am in a van on the way to a show in Southampton, and I am listening to Demi Lovato.
Yours,
Calum S. Gunn
xx
