The Pussycat Dolls

Until some impresario rounds up a troupe of working prostitutes to personally give each audience member a hand job, you’re not going to get a better wet-dream marketing triumph than The Pussycat Dolls. Originally a neoburlesque dance troupe in L.A. that quickly franchised in Sin City, the whole PCD enterprise was given instant credibility through star-power blessings from Britney, Christina (the gal they’re opening up for, who may insist they can’t have a pole onstage), Gwen, Pink, Carmen, and Pamela, all who’ve happily slutted it up onstage with the PCD before a record was even in the can. And before any controversy could ensue, the PCD powers that be confirmed what anyone who watched the videos already surmised — that every single vocal on every single Pussycat Dolls recording emanates from Nicole Scherzinger’s mouth, and that Kimberly, Carmit, Ashley, Melody, and Jessica are basically five bumping-and-grinding Andrew Ridgeleys working harder than he ever did as a professional loiterer. Without Scherzinger’s self-assured vocals, this whole beautiful dirt party would crumble in a heap, which makes us worry that soon she’ll insist on top billing, and the marquee will read “NICOLE SCHERZINGER* . . .” and you’ll follow that lonely asterisk to the bottom of the poster to read “*and The Pussycat Dolls” in two-point type. They’re already stirring the pot by giving Scherzinger bland ballads that go against everything “Don’t Cha” and “Wait a Minute” stand for. Let’s just hope that the other five girls aren’t relocated to the pop Siberia to which they banished “*and Miami Sound Machine.”