Katy Perry, who distills every reprehensible thing about the age of The Hills into one pop album. She disses her boyfriend with gay-baiting; she makes out with a girl and she doesn’t even like girls; she brags to a suitor that he can’t afford her, parties till she’s face-down in the porcelain, drops brands as if they were weapons, curses casually, and trades under-the-table favors. In short, she’s styled herself as a Montag monster. Perry is not untalented — she writes like an ungarbled Alanis and has an eye for details — but that only accentuates how her vile wild-child persona is an artifice designed to get her the stardom she craves. – Stephen Thomas Erlewine