It's not a link that would immediately spring to mind. On first listen this I suddenly thought of The Jam. Stick with me here. Sonically it sounds nothing like them. Wellar's suburban vitriol is a polar opposite off Shania's county-lite. Despite this, the lyric in a Town Called Malice "And a hundred lonely housewives, Clutch empty milk bottles to their hearts" sprung to the forefront of my mind. Who has milk bottles now in the age of hyper-markets. It should scan, "Clutch Shania Twain CDs to their hearts." Shania is the Stepford wives favourite. There is nothing here to engage, enrage, make you smile, make you weep, make you bop. Like a musical lobotomy, aural Valium.

This tale of a failing relationship that musters as much sincerity as a George W Bush speech. This is not the pop Shania of That Don't Impress Me Much. I don't mind the pop Shania, she sassy, funny and doesn't take her self too seriously.

This is the country Shania. Mutt Lange's trademark production, lets make it sound like '80s Def Leppard, is a little muted here. The result is a little bit country but bland beyond belief. A sherbet blancmange. So loaded up with sugar and artificial flavours it would give Jamie Oliver's school kids a fit. Like some horrid genetic experiment that has crossbred Cher, Leann Rimes and the plot of an episode of Neighbours. It could eat the charts alive and stay a number one for weeks. If it does it should spark a revolution. Bring forth the guillotine.