It's been three years since Shania Twain, the pseudo-country Frankenstein of pop, played a gig, having taken time out to become a mum. And, like a scandal-hit president desperate for re-election, she is prepared to offer just the right amount of starry sweetness - even conducting a lottery for the winner to join her on stage in a bid to raise money for the NSPCC - to obscure her deceptively fierce bid to remain a megastar. And she'll do it semi-naked.
Wearing transparent trousers as she emotes over songs that achieve the kind of chatty, claws-out feminism personified by EastEnders' Kat Slater, Twain is every bored housewife's sexy alter ego and every husband's feisty fantasy figure. A fixed smile and glowing girl-next-door freshness keeps the under-12's believing she is a sparkly, sassy Sindy doll, while their big sisters are won over by her Valley-Girl enthusiasm and MTV-friendly image.
Her last album, 1999's Come On Over, sold 34m copies, and the pressure to repeat that success lies heavy on Twain's slim shoulders. The follow-up, Up!, sticks to her tried-and-tired formula of rock stomps with unsubtle slashes of pedal steel guitar and bolshy pop singalongs, exemplified by That Don't Impress Me Much.
Maybe that is why her only UK gig this year has all the atmosphere of the moon. Despite the Union flag cut-off T-shirt, indulgent use of fireworks and 10-strong band of show-offs on stage, Twain battles valiantly against indifference. Donning a bowler hat for the crunchy keyboards and slinky guitar rhythm of Man! I Feel Like a Woman!, she bounces around the stage, yelping like an excited child. Title track Up! is just as perky and personal. "I wish that I could grow a beard, then I could cover up my spots," she sings, glistening like a supermodel.
Twain's identity crisis is her undoing. When she gets her dazzling teeth into a slice of traditional country, she comes alive, revelling in the freedom of a dusty but humorous hoedown. But her increasing forays into rock music and her ill-advised use of teen speak - everything's totally punkin' and freakin' in Shania's world - erase her uniqueness and leave her nipping at the heels of pop nymphs while languishing in the boredom of confused MOR. Juanita is listless Latin pop and In My Car is flirty and forgettable. But You're Still the One remains Twain's finest moment, a glimpse of clarity amid the tireless campaigning.
