Talent in a Previous Life

Because It's Never Just About the Music

Tuesday, July 10, 2007

The Actual Worst Recorcs in the World... Ever 

Untouchable. Not just the name of an ace single by late nineties widescreen lovelorn pop types Rialto, but also the apparent status of bulging faced thumbs aloft granddad type, Paul McCartney. And not, as you might suspect, because he's a weeping sore on the face of the music industry but instead because he was once in a successful band who last released a record over thirty five sodding years ago and people in this country have no imagination whatsoever. But because of this respect given to a man whose last release featuring any real imagination was The Frog Chorus, any vaguely musical farts that he might, for reasons best known to himself, decide to stick on a CD aren't treated with the sort of disdain that you'd normally give to self-indulgent barely literate tripe but are instead released, given an expensive promotional budget and turn up, unwanted and unrequested on radio and TV stations up and down the land. So it is with Dance Tonight, Paul's latest release, a song so bad that you genuinely begin to wonder if Paul's has some sort of grudge against the entire world as there's not really any other explanation for his insatiable desire to punish us all.

Dance Tonight is the sort of song that, if a twelve year old came up with it in a music class at school, you'd seriously wonder whether they needed to join a remedial set. It's so basic and simplistic that it barely even counts as a sketch of a song, although it does put you in mind of the sort of thing that someone who hadn't actually heard music before, but had been told what it's like, might come up with if they tried to write a tune. Although even then they'd have to be completely soulless and lacking in any sort of creative impulse whatsoever to come up with something so entirely devoid of worth as this. If this is the sound in Paul's head then he really should keep it there.

It's the sort of song which seems expressly designed to annoy, there's no effort to engage on any level other than irritation. It's the sort of thing that might be described as an earworm, in that it's catchy enough to burrow it's way into your brain, eating out the inside and leaving you with a hollow skull, which you instantly turn into a beehive, reasoning that the constant buzzing would be a much more pleasurable experience than having that bloody mandolin riff bouncing around your head like a tennis ball in an empty room. There is no point for this record to exist, other than to suck up money from deluded people who can't move on from the sixties. The Beatles were good for their time, sure, but if they're your favourite band today then, frankly, you've really not heard enough music.

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