Considering that Nicole Renee wrote, arranged, and could have played every note on her self-titled debut album, the pundits calling her a "female Prince" aren't so far from reality. A slinky 23-year-old singer/guitarist/writer/producer/add-title-here with exotic looks and freaky undertones, her pseudo-religious links and musical ability should guarantee her a quality debut, riddled with critical acclaim and heavy comparisons to the Paisley One.

The best laid plans of mice and men ...

The problem is Renee's general policy decision to screech at the top of her range. While putting Isley Brothers flavored country-esque tints on most of her lyrics, she nevertheless feels inclined to scream louder than Neve Campbell and Jamie Lee Curtis at a horror flick on the lion's share of the tracks here.

Her talent is clear on songs like "Rockin' Chair," a laid back and funky cut which is easy to listen to, or the lead single "Strawberry" which also follows a pleasant vocal route, showing the nuances and gentle tones her voice can achieve. Then, on songs like the heavy handed "Telephone," which starts off the album and serves as an audio slap in the grill with its abrasive and grating chorus, you get a much less polished artist unable to take you into the cozy nooks and crannies of her voice, choosing to leave you freezing in the vast amphitheatres it can create instead.

Renee can only chalk some of this up to inexperience -- she served four years on BET's "Teen Summit," sitting down and chatting with some of R&B's finest. As well, being a classically trained singer ("I was gearing up to go to a conservatory," she said, until industry weasels lurking around green rooms enticed her with the forbidden fruit of a record contract), she has the knowledge and the talent to pull it off. Also, considering she wrote 200 complete songs before ever signing, she had time and material aplenty to work out the kinks.

As with many current albums, there's enough quality material here for a very banging EP. With the weight of a full length album on her shoulders, she took the Johnny Gill/Mariah Carey route on several songs -- hoping to blow away listeners with pure volume and intensity, leaving subtleties and craftsmanship behind in favor of betting the farm on the hand she was dealt. This is disappointing -- the album is like skipping stones across the water, glancing on solid points and fast forwarding through the fluff and furor.

Still, should Atlantic keep the faith for this very promising young lyricist, she should be able to grow out of this musical cocoon in an album or two. As for now, she's just below acceptable standards, inches from a passing grade, a cute girl left standing alone in the auditorium after the assembly is over.