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In retrospect, Charli was like a young, still-forming version of what Wayne Koestenbaum described in his legendary essay, “Debbie Harry at the Supermarket”: “By singing the words ‘I’m not the kind of girl,’ Harry — or her persona — admits that there exist many varieties of girl, as many as there are shades of lipstick, or verses in the Bible, or varieties of rock on the path to Lourdes.There are many kinds of girl, and Debbie has the right to pick exactly which kind she is.

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Take a look and make sure that zoo sex is normal and nice, animals get from it pleasure. With its deep-tissue , it was conceived with longtime Swedish writing partner Patrik Berger (co-writer of Robyn’s ecstatically lonesome “Dancing on My Own”), and was rejected by Hillary Freaking Duff back in 2012 after it didn’t make it onto Charli’s first album .It’s difficult to imagine Duff slinking through the song’s unforced undertow and then busting into its post-dubstep bubbleyum sway.Her 2012 debut album was a wonderful ’80s-’90s mash-up of goth, alt-rock and synth-pop, but it made little noise.And her first two chart hits — Icona Pop‘s “I Love It” and Iggy Azalea’s “Fancy,” featuring indelible choruses which she wrote and sang — succeeded against great odds: 1) Nobody knew or cared who Icona Pop was before, during or after “I Love It”; and 2) Iggy Azalea.But Charli’s wound-tight, fidgety-kid energy is all over it, capturing not just the rush and push of a first kiss but the full-on crush, the weight that anchors you while you swoon and grasp, tethered by the fear that YOU CAN’T REALLY DO THIS.

There’s more open space in “Boom Clap” than most 2014 hits, sonically and otherwise; and when Charli sings, “The beat goes on and on and on and on and on and” it’s a perfectly placed pop ellipsis.

The boingy bumrush title track sardonically deads any misconceptions: “You said you wanna bang/ Well, fuck you, sucker.” Then dispenses with a certain ubiquitous hitmaker: “‘Luke loves your stuff’/ Oh, dear God, do you get me now? Luke” Gottswald, whose productions have helped launch the careers of Kelly Clarkson, Katy Perry, Miley Cyrus and Ke$ha (who is currently suing Luke over allegations of sexual, physical and emotional abuse).

With Charli’s brash punk-rave individualism and gift for hooky chants, the album practically celebrates the absence of a 5-o’clock-shadowy “Dr.” behind the scenes.

“London Queen” (written with Sky Ferreira collaborator Justin Raisen), wiggles its nose like Josie and the Pussycats clowning the Sex Pistols in a Topshop dressing room; Charli tells her mum she won’t be back until she “can fill this shack up with all gold plaques” and then poses “like JFK, ya know,” living the American dream, hooting “oi oi oi” (, conspicuously consuming the spoils of success with no regrets, building “a pretty green castle” where she smokes in bed, drowning her “platinum troubles” in pink champagne.

Having tilted at pop stardom since age 14 — when her dad paid for the then-Charlotte Aitchison’s first studio time — Charli has certainly seen her fair share of suckers, both men and women.

There’s always glitter in the darkness, whenever you’re ready to look for it.