If the chip on Lisa Marie Presley’s shoulder were any bigger, she’d be a lumberjack. Move over, Courtney Love: Here’s a woman determined to dump her psychodrama into the mainstream.As every tabloid devotee knows, Elvis’s daughter is the ex-missus of both Nicolas Cage and Michael Jackson. But Presley, who’s 35, still gets along with her first husband, Danny Keough, an undistinguished songwriter who collaborated with her on this album filled with angry, guilt-ridden kiss-offs. Presley’s debut has been marinating for years, through various versions and producers. But the music is consistent: broad, slow-strumming rock, plush and glum in minor keys. Professional as the backup is, melodies are scarce, and Presley’s low, breathy voice belongs in karaoke. She randomly bursts into dramatics, and when she reaches higher and fuller, she sounds uncannily like Cher, who has always known that a drama queen still needs a catchy chorus. The songs, unfortunately, aren’t Hollywood tell-alls, though “Lights Out” contemplates the family funeral plot in “the damn back lawn” in Memphis. Most of the songs are the free-associating spew of a potty-mouthed, proudly maladjusted gal who loves her children and despises or mistrusts everyone else, including herself. Self-righteousness, paranoia and perverse pride circle endlessly. The album could have been worse; Presley could have remade her dad’s “Don’t Be Cruel.” In a self-obsessed way, that is her message.