Seventeen-year-old Britney Spears leads a way charmed life. Her certified-gold debut single, ". . . Baby One More Time," was recorded with producer/songwriter Max Martin of Backstreet Boys fame. (Hyperventilating!) But her story doesn't start there; she's yet another offspring of The Mickey Mouse Club, the stomping grounds of not only TV's Felicity, Keri Russell, but also Justin and J.C. of 'N Sync. (Ohmigod, right?) Plus -- get this -- she got her first kiss from… wait for it… Justin! Yeah, that Justin! Like, 'N Sync Justin! (Couldja just die?)

Well, don't turn too green yet, 'cause Britney's got the unenviable task of opening for 'N Sync on their latest tour, which could very well earn her the ire of each and every lassie in the crowd. Hey, we say! You can't go and turn on Britney like that! She's so sunny and cute and lovable, and she wears her lip gloss with such carefree abandon. But then again, when you think about it, she's sending out some pretty mixed signals: she's got that innocent-prep- school-girl/raging-slut look down pat, and that pose on her album cover is somewhat suggestive of kinderporn. And then there's that whole "Hit me, baby/one more time" issue… oh, let's not even go there.

So who's the real Britney Spears, anyway? Leader of today's Electric Youth and future talent to be reckoned with, or yet another zombified automaton of the recording industry patriarchy? It's pretty safe to say the truth lies somewhere right down the middle -- just like most of the material on her debut album. No, Miss Spears didn't pick up a pen and write anything herself (she's no Debbie Gibson); this mall-tour grad (hello, Tiffany!) is slinging tunes by Max Martin, Eric Foster White (Whitney Houston alum), and a whole truckload of Swedes. But don't expect brain-scorching, maddeningly catchy, addictive-like- hard-drugs melodies in the Ace of Base, Army of Lovers, or even Roxette mold; we're stuck in the safety zone here.

True, ". . . Baby One More Time" is super-saturated fun -- who cares if the chorus' epic arrangement is lifted straight from "Everybody (Backstreet's Back)?" But the remainder of the material is pretty much drained of all emotion and excitement, save for the giddy, riddim-riddled "Soda Pop" (which, in its sheer adolescent inanity, brings back fond memories of New Kids on the Block's "Popsicle") and a bachelorette-pad cover of Sonny & Cher's 1967 chestnut "The Beat Goes On," complete with a damned infectious bossa-nova beat. And in the you-must-be-joking department, you simply can't do any better than the touching ballad "E-Mail My Heart." ("It's been hours, seems like days/since you went away/and all I do is check the screen/to see if you're okay.")

As for Spears' voice, well, she hasn't quite grown into it yet. She can bare her midriff and baby-doll-growl till the cows come home, but she's no Aaliyah, and neither Brandy nor Monica should expect to see bite marks on their heels any time soon. (Robyn, however, should check and see if her thunder is missing.)

Possibly the most notable thing about Spears' debut is her chirpy appearance at the end of the disc to shill sneak previews of three, count 'em, three new songs by her Jive labelmates, Backstreet Boys. (Gasp!) That's one whole minute of new BSB material! Is this a new zenith in cross-promotional extremism? Proof that adolescent girls want their babysitting money forcibly removed from their Hello Kitty wallets? Incentive? Blackmail? Take your pick. Will it work? Oh, just you watch.

-- Kim Stitzel