Lisa Marie Presley

“[Cue Robin Leach voice] Her daddy was the king of rock ’n’ roll, and ex-hubby is the freakish king of pop. But the big question is: Does Lisa Marie Presley have what it takes to make it on her own?” Ah, yes—the big question. First, this doesn’t suck nearly as much as you might expect. Yes, the overproduced backing tracks sound like what L.A. studio weasels think a good U2 record might sound like. Presley has a pleasant, husky contralto, kinda like Cher’s sans the Velveeta, but she sounds like she learned to sing by mumbling along with Michael Stipe on early R.E.M. records. That isn’t bad; I prefer incoherent mumbling in a pop context, especially when the lyrics are vapid. But some of Presley’s, all of which she wrote, have gravitas, like in the album’s memorable first single, “Lights Out,” where she addresses her roots, or in the title cut, a Scientologist’s rant against medicating kids.