It would seem Epic's lost faith in its soul savior: The Trouble With Being Myself (album title as cry for help, anyone?) was released in the U.K. in April, then shuffled on and off the U.S. schedule till it all but disappeared; may never come out, may already be out, who knows. So, before it slips between the cracks and takes Gray with it, consider it proof that an artist can sell out without giving in. Dallas Austin (giving it all his TLC) produces, but without smoothing down the razor's edge; you can move the bad girl into a good neighborhood, but she's still capable of corrupting the neighbors.
Her first-person fantasies still convince like holy-crap autobiography (her "Fondest Childhood Memories" include offing the baby sitter caught "sexing" her dad and the plumber she found "plunging" her mom), her love letters still sound like restraining orders ("She Ain't Right for You" says one; "She Don't Write Songs About You" goes another), her ambitions still border on the fucking nuts ("If I could be Jesus for just one day"). But, goddamn, the music kills: No record released in 2003 will put a bigger grin on your face, a bigger beat in your heart or a bigger bounce in your quarter-ounce.
