Madonna certainly has her legs w i d e open, musically that is. When she says “I’ve heard it all before” she does so over a barrage of audio-scaped meta-pop (and cultural) inter-preferentiality that demands rapture in the arms of the mother-muse’s seduction, while flaunting unashamedly juvenile ‘take it, or fuck off’ sentiments. This is a strategically crafted album, accessible to the point of unpardonable promiscuity. It is ablaze in stylistic convictions rooted deep in the tabernacle of salacious illusion. The artificial sonority factor regularly pirouettes right of the scale, sonically illuminating Madonna’s authentically human voice. Confessions on a dance floor is a big phat ‘take that’, a mild sermon and in a way a bit of a bubble-gum koan, even if only in contemplation of its artistically ambiguous aesthetic posturing, w i d e open to orgasmic sentimentality and indulgent enjoyment.

I love it :- )