Jeanne Stallworth is an “It” girl waiting to happen: anyone who’s ever witnessed her sashaying across the impractically shallow Lounge Lizards stage will tell you that. Like Clara Bow before her, she has that indefinable something that sets her apart from the pack. Call it what you will—stage presence, star quality—Stallworth has it by the truckload. The problem, of course, is such crowd-pulling charisma rarely makes the transition from smoky French Quarter bar to small, shiny disc.

Thankfully, Stallworth’s personality, as well as those of her fellow Paradise Vendors, survives relatively intact on this, the band’s debut long-player. The album took them the best part of a year to record, and that attention to detail is to be found in the subtle layers of texture which add to an already solid set of songs.

Robert Vicknair’s unique Latin-surf guitar comes into its own here, while Anton Gussoni’s keyboard swirls bring a touch of early Roxy Music weirdness to tracks like “Y Tu Mama” and the instrumental “Waltz,” elevating them above the usual, standard rock plodding fare. Elsewhere, the infamous “Mistress Genevieve” appears in whip-cracking good form, beating the band’s previous recording into healthy submission.

Spartie Tucker’s clean, yet spacey, production further impresses. Stallworth’s vocals float mesmerizingly over live favorites “Proloft” (cunningly renamed from “Prozac” to avoid any unnecessary legal entanglements) and “Eddie,” proving that, in another lifetime, she might have made a fine jazz singer. But this is 2005, and if there is to be a future for New Orleans music outside the increasingly sectional interests of jazz and roots aficionados, this is how it must sound.

Candy, then, is a thoroughly modern confection for a thoroughly old-fashioned city. Treat yourself, New Orleans. You’ve earned it.