As is frequently the case when he is under a deadline, Mr. Tyrrell channeled the spirit of Beelzebub, the Dark Lord, in order to get this review completed on time. Contractually we are obligated to give Tyrrell the byline, but we all know whose work--and pop knowhow!--are evidenced herein. Hail! -- Eds.

Greetings, scumbags. It is I, Satan. I am your holy lord of all things evil. I rule over each and every tortured soul in the bowels of hell (as well as those nicer, more upscale areas of hell). I go by many names, and when any one is uttered it may produce such a fear in man that his skin may wilt off his bones, and his skeleton crumble into a pile of ash. Pain is my pleasure, and darkness my light. Also, I used to own a small record label.

In 1996, we were having a bit of a recession down in hell, so I decided to take some time off, regroup, and maybe steal some burgeoning evil souls from your world. I found a young waifish girl named Fiona Johnson, who--though merely a child--displayed a profound propensity for evil. I immediately took her under my satanic wing, and promised to give her the vocal chops and piano prowess (as well as heavy MTV rotation) she would need to become a star, in exchange for her soul. Now, this Fiona girl was already savvy enough to know that this was a bum deal (can't blame Lucifer for trying!) so she bartered for pronounced emotional instability in exchange for the goods. I guess I'm a softy when I'm on vacay, so I accepted.

You know the first part of that story. We changed her surname to Apple (that was my little Garden of Eden joke) and plugged singles off her first album, "Tidal," such as "Sleep to Dream," "Criminal," and "Shadowboxer." She was gaining acceptance (and the evil chips were falling just into place), until her famed MTV award acceptance speech where she appeared to the entire world to be both drunk and crazy. This was my little fuck-up, I must admit, and I really should have waited until after she hit it big before I forced her into insanity. Live and learn--that's my motto.

Anyway, it seemed as if her loose cannon rep was going to stunt any dreams I might have had for her to be an alluringly evil voice for mankind, so I dropped her. She had her fifteen minutes, and I had the pleasure of giving her the ol' mindfuck--everybody was happy. But recently I saw an ad on TV for her brand new album, accompanied by a whole host of stellar reviews. I was so angry I almost kicked the screen in. Then "Providence" came on, and I calmed down.

I bought the album and have listened to it several times now, and it's a horrible, horrible piece of work. Oh, who'm I kidding? The damn thing is wearing out my CD player. Though I hate to admit it, it's . . . it's an amazing album. I should have stuck with this kid, I know now. Hindsight is, after all, 20/20.

To begin with, she was able to suck publicity out of something as banal as the album title. It's, like, the longest title ever--just shy of a hundred words, I believe. It's been shortened to When The Pawn, the first three words, but it's still a brilliant marketing move. Curiosities were piqued. Satan was jealous.

Then the world heard the first single, "Fast as You Can," a throbbing, electronic rollercoaster of a song, and rushed out to buy the album. This is when I decided that not only does this girl have a whole lotta talent, but that I would need to call her Rotten Apple in order to calm my nerves. It has helped somewhat.

"When The Pawn," you scrotum-less human sheep consumers, is not as instantly catchy as our effort, "Tidal," but it is a consistently superior album. Rotten Apple starts out strong with "On The Bound," which is followed by the extremely solid song, "To Your Love." The beginning of the latter is reminiscent of Billy Joel's "Pressure," and goddamn her for improving on Joel--one of my all-time faves! She shouts the line "My derring-do allows me to dance the rigadoon around you!" and you want to laugh, because it's so silly, but it fuckin' rocks, alright?

Then she's got some awesome dark songs in there, like "Limp" and "Love Ridden," both of which could have been ballads about evil supreme, but alas, I'm an idiot. Then my favorite, "Paper Bag," which is about hunger hurting and starving working, and her shaky hands, and wanting some guy really bad, and I don't give a shit, because it's also a kick-ass song. Blah blah blah and on and on. You don't need me to list all of the songs to know that they're all great, and her singing is outstanding, and the music itself is brilliant, and everything's so wonderfully perfect I could vomit.

I should mention two more things. One, when you hear the beautiful "Get Gone," and you think that Rotten Apple sounds like she's channeling Judy Garland or Billie Holliday, it's more than just a coincidence. In an effort to pattern Apple (back in '96) after those two tortured singers, I loaned her their vocal chords. Well, big shock, she's using them, and of course it sounds fucking heavenly.

Then there's the one saving grace. The lyrics on the entire album all basically revolve around her saying, "Run away from me, boyfriend, because I'm too fucked in the head to love, and sooner or later you're gonna find out that I'm one crazy bitch!" Makes me happy that she's still at least whacked out of her brain, even if her musical career now seems like it's gonna last forever. But look at her two last boyfriends. There was that street magician, David Blaine, and then "Boogie Nights" auteur Paul Thomas Anderson. Yeah, here are two stable guys that are gonna run from your crazy ass. I mean, did you see "Boogie Nights"? That guy must be really messed up! And the magician buried himself in the ground for a week! Makes Fiona look like a goddamned Joan Allen character!

Anyway, I highly recommend purchasing this album, because it's a cut above anything else out there (and you may help realize my sincere hope that her insanity is contagious). Me, I've got to start focusing my attention back on Britney, Ricky, and my boy bands--all of whom have long, satanic careers I'm nurturing. But I can't help but marvel at the work of my own fallen angel--Fiona--the one that got away!

Rock on and worship me!

Love,

The Devil