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We all know the story, even if we haven’t seen the movie. There’s no more classic tale in rock of both an artist’s and a woman’s survival than Tina Turner’s, and it’s more than a little satisfying that when all is said and done, it looks like mean old Ike’s place in history will be as a footnote in her life story–and not the other way around, as he’d planned. Now 61, Turner’s sex appeal hasn’t waned, nor has her energy; her famous gams still hold up throughout the sweaty workouts she calls concerts, and most important, her voice still defines full-throttle soul. Then what’s the problem? Well, her latest album, for one. Most of the material on Twenty Four Seven is simply not worthy of the mighty Tina. While an alarming trend toward colorless adult contemporary fodder has been developing throughout her solo career, only now does the once-vibrant soul of her work really feel lost, her passion wasted on songs bland enough for your doctor’s office and too dull for even your grandma.
