Madonna without the marriage, the children, the British estate? Such is
the fantasy world conjured up in
Confessions on a Dance Floor
. Madonna
never completely deserted clubland, of course, but she hasn't made an
album this consistently beat-driven since 1992's
Erotica
. Once again,
she's the restless soul aching to connect, this time by way of fluid
Ibiza techno (''Jump,'' ''Get Together'') and a robo-voiced Kraftwerk homage
(''Forbidden Love''); ''Hung Up'' shows how effortlessly she can tap into
her petulant inner teen. Unencumbered by the freneticism and unevenness
that marred her last few albums,
Confessions
glides on a jet stream; for
that extra rave-new-world touch, the songs segue into one other.
For all its pretenses of being giddy and spontaneous, though,
Confessions
is rarely either. Madonna is no longer the free spirit of
her youth, which is plenty obvious when she ponders the spiritual ''place
where I belong'' (''Let It Will Be'') or indulges in further self-pity over
the price o' fame (''How High''). It's as if a rain cloud has settled over
her nightclub.
Yet Brit techno whiz Stuart Price, her new co-producer, overrides her
clichés by focusing on the beats. The disingenuous ''I Love New York''
wants us to believe she feels like ''a dork'' when she's not in that city
and that she's down on London, her new home. But damn if that chorus
won't make for a perfect jingle for a tourism commercial. Like so many
Madonna albums, this one eventually runs low on gas; not even Price can
make sense of her Kabbalah parable, ''Isaac,'' which evokes older, better
Madonna hits. But she's smart enough to know that dulcet dance music for
grown-ups is a worthy niche waiting to be filled.