Gwen Stefani LOVE. ANGEL. MUSIC. BABY. (INTERSCOPE).

One begins to wonder whether Gwen Stefani is capable of having any fun. Pop tarts suffering nervous breakdowns in public are barely newsworthy, but committing one to tape on a highly leveraged solo debut is just plain weird. On LAMB (the title is but the first of the disc’s many plugs for her couture line), Gwen takes a holiday from No Doubt’s brand-name-rock responsibilities, but the clubby confection she promised never shows up.

There’s a flash of what might have been on the first single and leadoff track, "What You Waiting For?" A self-scolding dialogue on the singer’s inability to finish the song she’s singing, it’s Gwen as an American Kylie Minogue, a globetrotting sophisticate dressed up in escapist electro-pop ear candy. But then everything goes awry. Dr. Dre’s Fiddler on the Roof–sampling "Rich Girl" falls flat, though as a Jewish-dancehall jingle, it’ll make a great Hanukkah single. (ND’s Tony Kanal actually does a better Dre impersonation on the quiet-storming R&B ballad "Luxurious," stapling Kayne-esque kettle-drum rolls to Turtle-waxed G-funk synth lines.) And though on "Hollaback Girl" Gwen promises "My shit is bananas," the Neptunes’ drum-line crunch merely bites the dust.

Stefani’s lyrics have never been bad enough for anyone to notice, but they become a cringe-inducing embarrassment on "Harajuku Girls," and her creepy obsession with Japan’s hysteric-glamor underworld reappears throughout the album like a bad rash. She has a whimpering voice that takes easily to melancholia but is almost resistant to anything carefree. The exception that proves the rule is Andre 3000’s ode to back-seat education, "Bubble Pop Electric": Johnny Vulture sets the drum machine to ’86 Megadeth, the guitars on stun, and the bass-synths to "Hey Ya!," multi-tracking Gwen into ecstatic choruses that sound like Sandra Dee tickling a tubful of Andrews Sisters to the tune of "Paradise by the Dashboard Lights." Ultimately, of course, a voice like that can sell you just about anything. After almost every misstep, Stefani simply adopts that gorgeous Betty Boop–some pout, waves her magic wand, and coos a cheap knockoff of some ’80s club-nouveau anthem or designer-pop song you loved in the first place. And presto: a mediocre album it’s impossible to stay mad at.