GRACE: EGO TO GO

“SLAVE TO THE RHYTHM.” Grace Jones. Manhattan. This peculiar hodgepodge of song and spoken homage to pop’s dominatrix diva might have suited the self-absorbed spirit of the disco days. But like the slimy critters in “War of the Worlds,” it shrivels and dies when exposed to today’s more urgent atmosphere.

“Lacerations echo in the mouth’s open erotic sky--where dance together the lost frenzies of rhythm and an imploring immobility,” intones Ian McShane, opening the album with a menacing Aleister Crowley impression.

“Soon I found myself living to the very fast rhythm of Grace Jones. . . . I decided deliberately to mythologize Grace Jones. . . . Grace let me take her over completely,” recounts her former Svengali, Jean-Paul Goude, who also fills us in on their “intense, hysterical romance.”

Confesses Miss Grace Jones herself, in response to one of many simpering interview questions, “Being adored and worshiped are the things that make me blush.” She should add this album to the list. Its elitism and arrogance even spoil whatever fun there might be in Jones’ patented funk-reggae musical turns.

At some point, you might suspect it’s all a joke or a spoof, but the punch line never comes. The record’s unrelenting narcissism might not be so bad from a true giant and worthy egomaniac like Jerry Lee Lewis, but it’s ludicrous coming from an artiste whose major contribution has been her haircut (and that’s to the National Basketball Assn., not to pop music).

It’s not surprising to discover that “Slave” (which carries the pretentious subtitle “a biography”) finds Jones teamed with producer Trevor Horn and theorist Paul Morley, the same folks who brought you Frankie Goes to Hollywood. In that case, they managed to make the artifice and hype engaging in a warped sort of way, but here it’s gone sour. This record should come with a shovel so you can bury it.