Kyary Pamyu Pamyu
Nanda Collection

"Enough is enough, O__O! You’ve been tormenting us for months with unlistenable albums of pure noise! When will you give us something pop and lighthearted, something that makes you love the world and smile? I mean, come on, I can’t believe you listen to all that stuff, what’s going on?" I hear resounding in my head like a cyclone. Fine, then. Take a sigh of relief: let’s talk about pop, bitches!
Deluded!
You haven’t yet considered that yours truly O__O even when choosing pop and radio-friendly albums to review will stab you in the back.
Kyary Pamyu Pamyu is not a pop star and not a diva: this young Japanese girl born in ’93 (!!!) is THE ANTICHRIST OF THE POP SONG. Besides, who the hell wrote that if you're a girl doing pop, you need to be a half-naked stunner able to trigger uncontrollable hormones with yet another trashy beat to sigh over? What banality! What idiocy! You can easily be an alien, a nightmare, a mad person, a monster! You can easily sing a catchy song while castrating the listener. You can easily be so carefree and drugged up as to become a permanent trauma.
Grotesque, overflowing, and joyful, but above all, tremendously unsettling. Surely a product crafted at a desk (considering that behind the project hides the production of the leader of Capsule), but not even that much actually: you just need to take a look at the blog of this cheerful nymphet with almond-shaped eyes to realize it. You immediately notice she’s not quite right in the head: beyond the extravagant looks, her facial expressions borderline monstrous and her selfies with a bleeding nose deserve a glance. It’s enough with her motto, which has become a testament: "I try to look cute, but in a traumatic way." 
One who, after all, made her bones starting as a fashion blogger, like an eastern version of Chiara Ferragni and has become in record time an international icon. From the series: from rags to riches. But where is the revolution in this project that creates more distrust than empathy? In the approach. Erase from your mind everything that the blatantly commercial and frivolous pop has taught you, because in Kyary none of this exists. She arrives like a cyclone, carrying with her music videos that are real works of art, things that are simultaneously pulp, trash, surrealist, dadaist, nonsense, and pop. She appears with impossible hairstyles (bonsai on head and other oddities) and outfits so weird and escaped from an asylum that they merrily defecate on Lady Gaga's head. She’s also established herself in the West, sparking idolatry (in Japan, with only two albums and a couple of years of career, she has already become a national icon, and what followed is a mass delirium bigger than her) thanks to a shameless risk, exaggerating, and going far beyond the boundary that many other pop artists trace before them. 
Yes, okay, it's all pretty, but how is the music? I want to scare you and therefore throw the stone: Kyary Pamyu Pamyu is completely devoid of musical talent. She doesn’t write a piece, and above all, she has a terrible voice: she sounds like a hamster just out of a washing machine. So why do I review her? Because Kyary Pamyu Pamyu succeeds in what many Western pop artists who want to be extravagant inevitably fail at. Lady Gaga, for example, wants to be our freak of nature, but her madness stops at the outfit alone, producing anonymous and horrible songs in line with contemporary electropop. But no! Also, this one’s music is pure madness. So out of control it sounds like a shocking pink revolver pointed at your temple.
The songs are structured like every respectable pop piece, but they hit the accelerator on different stimuli, genres, and sounds. The entire "Nanda Collection" sounds like a disturbing party between lolitas dressed in pink lace smashing each other to the beat of Kalashnikovs or a disenchanted circus show on acid. 
Thus, in the distressing "Mi (My Body)," a singsong chant injected on an obsessive base unexpectedly brings a burst of white noise (EXACTLY), and the single "Invader Invader" doesn’t hide dubstep movements. By contrast, the Capsule cover "Super Scooter Happy" delves into pure 8-bit. Not to mention the wild electro clatter of "Furisodation," the alienating nursery rhyme "Noriko To Norio" (but how long has it been since a contagiously cheerful piece proud of being so came out?), the night jazz opening of that future pop song that is "Saigon No Ice Cream," the crazy (and fantastic) march with trumpets, drums, and xylophones "Kura Kura," a trashy but enjoyable fusion between rock and j-pop trashiness called "Fashion Monster," the irresistible and spatial "Ninjari Ban Ban," the brilliant "Otona Na Kodomo," or the carefree "Kimi Ni 100 Percent." 
My rigor as a reviewer and lover of quite another kind of music would tell you not to listen to it, but I would be lying. Despite giving you a headache and despite Kyary needing to do anything but sing; this, like it or not, is the pop album of 2013: so exaggerated, avant-garde, and grotesque it irreparably embarrasses you.
And who cares if it’s "low" and annoying music (at first listen, it’s a torment, but it’s incredibly sticky to your ears)! This chaos of notes and little voices conveys a schizophrenic euphoria, a lively explosion of fluorescent colors, and a galactic harmony between the purest sweetness and the bloodiest of massacres. It makes you want to hop between red flowers with a machine gun under your arm, shouting "Life, I love you"!
Kyary Pamyu Pamyu is one of the very few contemporary pop stars with the exuberant extraordinariness to truly shock and go beyond the standards of boring and intrusive radio music. She doesn’t care at all about not being able to sing: if she wants to make noise, she does. She shatters your eardrums with explosions of deafening electronics, xylophones, tambourines, trumpets, and causes chaos as she pleases. And she does it smiling with that face so joyful and so full of pinches it hides the wickedness. 
Gloriously imperfect, bold, and extraordinarily courageous, "Nanda Collection" is here.  And no matter how much you try to push it away with all your means, once you encounter it, you’ll remain astonished, drugged, and hallucinated. And the real curse is that when asked "Why are you listening to it? Why do you like it?" you won’t know for sure.