Ke$ha: Warrior

I like girls who rap. I quite like glitter. And I really like getting hammered. It kinda goes without saying that I have a lot of time for Ke$ha.

Since I secretly purchased her debut record Animal, Ke$ha’s auto-tuned snarls have featured on many a pre-drinking playlist, playfully nudging me to brush my teeth with a bottle of whiskey and get rather rowdy. So it was with much excitement that I got my hands on her second album proper, Warrior. 

Earlier in the year Ke$ha promised a record mostly inspired by 70’s rock and the blues. In interviews she was threatening to expand her musical repertoire and move away from playground chants to develop something deeper that explored her spiritual journey (huh?!). Like I did with Christina Aguilera during her Back to Basics phase, I almost struck Ke$ha off my radar. I’m never interested in hearing a pop princess get serious with stripped back guff, and I certainly didn’t want to see Ke$ha swap her unhygienic rags for a look more wholesome. I wanted the same obnoxious odes to blacking out and getting laid in the backs of cars nasally screeched over squelchy electro beats. And, thankfully, that’s mostly what Ke$ha serves up again on Warrior. Hurrah! With Dr Luke, Will.i.am, fun., Max Martin and even Iggy Pop involved, Warrior is a big mix of electro-pop, dance and radio-friendly rock all shot through with Ke$ha’s cracking wordplay and knack for making something as innocent as going to the mall sound disgustingly crude.

  

While it’s not going to set the world on fire, Warrior certainly has its sights fixed on burning up plenty of dancefloors. From its stomping title-track opener to the ghost-loving Supernatural (complete with a Daft Punk-esque break), she takes us on a fast tour of dirty clubs, super late nights and getting wasted like there’s no tomorrow. She’s the ultimate YOLO advocate, celebrating the joys of being young and reckless and basically never ever apologising for fucking up. The only growing up Ke$ha appears to have done is to swap her bottle of Jack Daniel’s for a warm wine cooler.
    

Like any pop record, a couple of ballads are thrown into mix. They’re pretty forgettable and only worth the listen if you’re in any doubt that Ke$ha can actually sing. Most of her haters take issue with her fondness for auto-tune, and while she’ll never be a Mariah, tracks such as Past Lives and Wonderland prove that she can in fact hold a tune unaided.

I know I’m not going to win any cool points in professing my love for this grubby pop tart, but she’ll always be a first pick for any party playlist. Like Ke$ha, I recall walks of shame and rolling into work smelling of Bacardi breezers; I look back fondly on times passed out in the street wearing short shorts and a string vest; I even remember getting totally battered and blowing a shit load of glitter in someone’s unimpressed face (Ke$ha and I would so be best friends!). If you like your pop unapologetically fun, stupid and ridiculously catchy, then Ke$ha’s your girl.

Ke$ha still not for you? Here are a few other favourite brats to get a bit $leazy to: