Kelly Clarkson has made enough of a career for herself – her last album sold 11 million worldwide – that she now no longer needs the prefix of ‘American Idol winner’. This has given her the authority to dictate the shape of her third album, and she has opted for rock. That’s not rock as in ‘ROCK’, obviously, but the wipe-clean kind that begs your pardon for making noise. Paradoxically, Clarkson has been hailing the ‘intimacy’ of the self-composed songs, which were written during an introspective period that followed her winning no fewer than 21 music awards in 2005/06. She writes in bland generalities though, rarely equalling the directness of the opening Never Again (‘I hope the ring you gave her turns her finger green/I hope when you’re in bed with her you think of me’), and uses her opulent voice as a battering ram. The spooky ballroom-waltz of Irvine just about saves things and hints at what could have been.