Album: Gail Ann Dorsey

What a huge disappointment this is. About a decade and a half ago, Gail Ann Dorsey released a brilliant debut album called The Corporate World, which showcased her diverse talents as singer and multi-instrumentalist across a range of styles, in sharp, articulate songs whose titles - "Wasted Country", "Corporate World" - indicated their charged political tenor. When that album and a 1992 follow-up effort failed to ignite popular interest, she retreated to the safety of session and tour work, most recently as David Bowie's long-term bassist. This belated third solo album, sadly, has none of the bite and brilliance of her debut, being comprised instead of mawkish love songs, ponderous piano ballads and personal-growth platitudes ranging from the bluntly clichéd "You've got to stand, you've got to fight" to the just plain risible "I have the spirit of an eagle/ I have the soul of an angel". It's desperately poor, with no trace of a memorable melody, offering instead the kind of funk-lite acc

What a huge disappointment this is. About a decade and a half ago, Gail Ann Dorsey released a brilliant debut album called The Corporate World, which showcased her diverse talents as singer and multi-instrumentalist across a range of styles, in sharp, articulate songs whose titles - "Wasted Country", "Corporate World" - indicated their charged political tenor. When that album and a 1992 follow-up effort failed to ignite popular interest, she retreated to the safety of session and tour work, most recently as David Bowie's long-term bassist. This belated third solo album, sadly, has none of the bite and brilliance of her debut, being comprised instead of mawkish love songs, ponderous piano ballads and personal-growth platitudes ranging from the bluntly clichéd "You've got to stand, you've got to fight" to the just plain risible "I have the spirit of an eagle/ I have the soul of an angel". It's desperately poor, with no trace of a memorable melody, offering instead the kind of funk-lite accompaniment that "proper" musicians end up playing if there's no producer around to marshall their talents. Tracks like "Magical" hint at the expansive, jazzy ruminations favoured by Joni Mitchell - except there's no comparable depth of insight. And frankly, one doubts whether Mitchell would have let a phrase like "a mystic parade of desires" slip through her quality-control net.