Katy Perry's '143' is teenage nightmare bursting with cheap hyperpop imitations

Rolling in unfashionably late to the danceable Europop hits of this year's landmark "BRAT" summer, Katy Perry, once a commercial pioneer of the early 2010s candy-sweet pop boom, has put her career to the pyre. Released on September 20, "143" is baffling critics and alienating listeners.

Perry's early career was built on bright, fun, often faux-transgressive rebelliousness that was as proudly immature as it was infectious and catchy. Her initial claim to fame with the 2008 hit, "I Kissed A Girl," represents this mentality perfectly: late millennial quirk culture at its best.

Of her hit 2010 multi-platinum album "Teenage Dream," its title track, along with "California Gurls" and "Firework," speak to themes of empowerment, rowdiness and sensuality. Though, in retrospect, these entries are read best as the music of Madonna's pink tutu'd little sister.

Nothing in the playbook says pop music has to be mature, of course. Prolific producer Max Martin's lyrical sensibilities gave the music shape, and Perry's larger-than-life, almost Polly Pocket styling sold the dream. Her ubiquity in the era, cotton candy clouds and pink flamingo Americana in tow prove her ability to sell beyond her catchy hooks. She used to, at least.

Ultimately, Perry's body of work hasn't matured since 2013, though she's most certainly tried to. Her credible lineup of album collaborators and trite, outdated lyricism speaks to an almost entitled attitude toward the nature of her own celebrity.

Even her updated branding proves unconvincing. The album art calls desperately to techy Y2K trends, firmly in the arms of contemporary female hyperpop and electronic musicians like SOPHIE, Arca and the preeminent Charli XCX. But, this only serves as comedic disjunct to the lifeless pop therein.

The album begins with her most heavily marketed track, "WOMAN'S WORLD," and Perry is off to a now infamously poor start.

The lyrics reek of stale pop feminism of decades previous, where the fight for gender equity ended with hot pink pantsuits and smugly self-referential Disney princesses. The pre-chorus drones, "Superhuman, number one / She's a sister, she's a mother," sentiments better suited for a Hallmark Mother's Day card. Synths putter along in the hollow background of the song, so generic they're hardly noticeable.

One could be forgiven for imagining a snippet of this song as a satirical intro to something interesting, though one would be priming themselves for disappointment. Perry's compositions, especially in her solo songs on the album, are strangely empty. What little instrumentation exists beyond her voice adheres feverishly to zombified, mall-friendly pop conventions.

The Perry-only tracks ring nearly identical. One small point in favor of the album is the diverse features, which compose a third of the album. 21 Savage, JID, Doechii and Kim Petras offer respite in their unique vocal and lyrical styles, and to a degree, the static "dance party" flavor of the tracks conforms lightly to their musical aesthetics.

As a newer artist with a bright, somewhat unconventional style, Doechii is a breath of fresh air on her feature track, "I'M HIS, HE'S MINE." Kim Petras is also a fun standout on "GORGEOUS," if very much in contrast to Perry's tame, unthreatening verses.

What both songs have in common is a clumsy, unconvincing sensuality. In this respect, "GIMMIE GIMMIE" is the most baffling, failing to sell audiences on the appeal of "Crawlin' on me like a centipede," accompanied with less mortifying, if adolescent levels of wordplay.

Even at their best, the features on the album feel more like supplements for a fundamentally unfinished, undercooked final product, rather than additions to a complete work.

"TRUTH" and "CRUSH" get closest to Perry's usual corpus of sugary sweet pop ballads, though ultimately end up as pale imitations, wholly uninteresting in content or form. "WONDER," the last track on the album, is the final nail in the kitsch coffin, reaching and missing for sincerity by including vocals from Perry's daughter.

Resoundingly, the mass critical panning is deserved, if excessive, as there is startlingly little to love on "143." As outdated as Zune and 2010s moustache glasses, the album feels like the LaCroix of pop music, aimless in message and style. If Perry is lucky, "143" will fall quickly into obscurity as the passing fancy of online music critics.