Wherein I share Opinions about Events.
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In my Superlative Albums I Wrote About in 2017 list, this album was awarded the Galinda Upland Gold Star for Most Popular Album
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Ladies and gentlemen, I am in love.
That mousey boy from Portugal has ensorcelled me, with his scruffy mug, his tentative
gesticulations and his deep, soulful, melted-chocolatey-brown eyes. He has stolen my
heart, along with thousands of others from across Europe and the world, just
like he stole his dad’s ratty old blazer. His sweet, lilting ballad is reminiscent of
understated torch songs of yesteryear: sentimental, but never saccharine. Senhor
Sobral is hotly tipped for a podium finish in tomorrow’s grand final, and I can
only hope that will mean more reaction shots of him and his sister being utter dorks
in the green room. Salvador — more like Salvadorable, am I right?
Universal | discogs.com |
I’ll skip the contextualising. You
know what Eurovision is. You know what’s at stake. Without further ado, I’ll get
straight into writing nice things about other acts I like.
What kind of Australian would I be
if I didn’t wave the flag for our very own Isaiah Firebrace? Despite a little
hiccup in the first semi, he remains smooth and self-assured. His stylish
performance is sure to go down a treat with Europe — they love us, and we love
them, and we love them for loving us and they love us for loving them.
Speaking of all that jazz and the instruments
often incorporated therein, Moldova has brought back that sax guy the Internet
adores for a second crack. The SunStroke Project have kept it simple this time
with a contemporary toe-tapping number and contrastingly elegant wedding-themed
costuming. Elaborate choreography is for other people — dance moves this simple can be done in perfect unison, to hypnotic effect.
Armenia’s Artsvik struts down the
stage, flanked by two voguing women whose simple geometric cuts compliment her
intricate braids. Her dancers’ arms appear to sprout from her own shoulders as
she wails up and down that Dorian mode like some great bepantsuited goddess.
Since emerging victorious in 2013,
Denmark has submitted middling entries, but I have my fingers crossed that resident
diva Anja Nissen will turn things around. She’s at home on that stage, bringing
a magnetism to her performance that few other solo acts match. Though being sandwiched
between Italy and my precious jelly baby Salvador in the running order is
unlikely to do Anja any favours, she can still blow the whole place down.
Year by year, the Netherlands are
backing away from repeating the country trimmings that earned them silver in Copenhagen.
This year’s song is not especially harmonically complicated, but it doesn’t
need to be because god damn, that blend is impeccable. Anyone with a lick choral experience
will be blown away by sister trio OG3NE. So good.
Nipping at the heels of Ireland’s
record number of wins, Sweden is Eurovision’s most consistently excellent modern
competitor (and host — our beloved Petra Mede could smize those Ukrainians under
the table). Every year they are in it to win it, and in Kyiv they keep that
momentum going with a funky retro negging anthem. The treadmills are used to sleek
and sexy effect; it’s surprising how much difference just walking forward can
make to providing a sense of motion. Plus, Robin Bengtsson, in his sharply
tailored suit, brings a very particular, frosty Nordic allure. They’ve got a
top ten spot locked down.
With his warm, easygoing
Mediterranean charm and decidedly dweebier dance moves, Francesco Gabbani was
my unparalleled favourite of this year’s selection, until he very recently
yielded to my dear honeypie Salvador. Italy have been smartly selective since
returning to the competition in 2011 — there are only a few songs each year
whose lyrics stray from the three traditional topics (I love you, I love
myself, I love the world; arguments abound as to whether the first should be
split into two on the basis of reciprocation) and this is one of them, by far
the most thoughtful Eurovision song in years. It remains to be seen how cropping
it down by the better part of a minute from the national final will impact its
chances. Much of Francesco’s appeal stems from his zany freestyling during the
verses, both of which had to be trimmed down substantially to meet those
oppressive EU regulations. But that choreography is a stroke of genius. There
is always an abundance of sick moves to be sure, but there are almost none that
can be done from the comfort of your couch. Like a latter-day Macarena, this
one has that elusive inclusive simplicity, and it would surprise nobody if Italy
takes the gold in Kyiv.
All of the traditional Eurovision staples
proudly return for the 2017 competition. A poor, overclocked wind machine. Recursively
stacked key modulations. Head to toe white outfits, double points for a flowing
floor-length gown. Three or four power ballads, of varying quality. Costume
changes, indigenous instruments, Valentina Monetta, slick eighties throwbacks,
and most obligingly, Israel has volunteered the requisite troop of sizzling
beefcake to perform a sweaty, athletic dance routine. And of course, the
language roster is yet again uncomfortably anglocentric.
I find it far more compelling when
an act chooses to sing in their own language rather than English. One connects
with one’s mother tongue on a completely different emotional level to any
other, no matter the fluency, and an audience of hundreds of millions can hear
and judge that connection, or lack thereof. Every year there are perhaps a
dozen dispassionate performances that the singer clearly understands only
vaguely, or worse, has a hard time navigating. Awkwardly fumbling through a
strange landscape of shape and sound is seldom an enjoyable listen, and it has
been a long time since Eurovision’s last charmingly oblique ABBA-style
wordsmith crafted a novel new metaphor, or judiciously selected a perfectly
imperfect adverb, or played around with syntax in ways that fluent speakers would
never dream of. Greece’s pintsize pop star Demy laments that her relationship
is “so self-destroying,” Maltese chanteuse Claudia Faniello yearns to once
again fill the “vacancy within [the] heart” of her former lover, and one third
of that sublime Dutch trio promises to “strongly fight” through adversity.
These translations are so
perfunctory and utilitarian, and inevitably get in their own way if they
haven’t already fallen flat; native-language texts are always much more
vibrant. If only more countries took a leaf from the book of France and Italy
and Portugal, who always prefer to sing in their own language. Only seven of
this year’s forty-three set a toe beyond anglophonic territory (including my
sweet beagle boy, Salvador), and that’s including Croatia’s half-assed effort
as one whole ass.
Eurovision has always flown with
the prevailing winds, each year presenting a refreshed snapshot of the state of pop
music (generous quantities of retro acts notwithstanding). Gone are the
wubba-wubba dubstep breakdowns from the misty, primordial backwater swamps of
the early 2010s, replaced by skittering hi-hat polyrhythms and choruses of
short distorted loops. Slinky minimalism is in. Among those with their fingers
on the pulse are Bulgaria, ticking both the boxes with dashing flair, and
Belgium, whose downplayed entry really seems to have struck a chord.
I confess I’m not a fan of the live
performance. Blanche seemed disengaged and disinterested, and, like several
other solitary figures this year (the fabulous Slavko from Montenegro for one,
grumble grumble humbug), was swallowed up in that huge empty stage (unlike my
fragrant cherry blossom, Salvador). It was a fairly static performance of quite
a good song. The album version shines a much more flattering light on Blanche —
her flighty, husky vocals are given the space to breathe that live performance
often disbars. Blanche’s song still seems to have tapped into an incredible
zeitgeisty popularity. She’s just seventeen, and I’m sure some minor criticism
from me won’t put a dent in the big things that are surely in store for her.
Another superior album version is Poland’s
sultry power ballad, stuffed full of
delicious timpani rolls and dramatic string sawing. You have to show off when
on stage, of course, and Kasia Moś dropped her stoic studio stateliness like a large hot potato (not
dissimilar to my tender ginger stem, Salvador) for the stock-standard vocal gymnastics
that got her through the semis. But Kasia and Blanche both dig a little deeper
on the album, for a richer and more rewarding listen, though not rewarding
enough to absolve Kasia of her cardinal sin: rhyming ‘fire’ with ‘desire’ and ‘higher.’
Slovenia got little love on the night, but when we can put Omar Naber’s sparkly
blazer out of mind, his treacley Disney-lite ballad really comes alive during
the bridge.
It can go the other way, of course: Serbia’s Tijana Bogićević brought a
smoulder to her second semi performance, which was somehow flattened out of the
album mix. Norma John from Finland were a critical favourite but failed to
impress the audience with a lovely, minimalistic ballad, brushed with subtle
electronics that pop much brighter through headphones. And most memorably,
Australia’s very own Dami Im took home silver last year (as well as the juries’
first place) largely due to her earth-shattering belting, improvised tremendously,
well after studio recording had wrapped up.
Then there are the acts that aren’t
especially strong in either format. Lithuania and Macedonia’s songs in
particular feature some pretty threadbare production. Despite dressing up as a
vampire slayer and Beyoncé from the 2013 Super Bowl respectively, neither Fusedmarc
nor Jana Burčeska managed to attract as much attention as they may have hoped. After
last year’s fizzy Lithuanian banger — one of the few to claim the elusive
five-star rating in my iTunes — this is especially discouraging. At least Jana
has a wedding and a baby to look forward to. (Christ, public proposals are a
risky move, aren’t they? I live for those videos of huge song-and-dance numbers
that end with blunt rejection. Schadefreudtacular.)
Of course, all countries have their
Eurovision ups and downs through the years, though some are certainly downier
than others. When we think of less popular Eurovision countries, our minds do
lend more weight to recent performance. Switzerland has spent the last decade
in a holding pattern of harmless bromides. Lightning did not strike twice for
Germany, and indeed since then has not struck anywhere in the vicinity. Despite
all its bottom-of-the-table finishes, we gloss over the fact that the UK took
fifth place in Moscow with a ballad from the pen of Andrew Lloyd-Weber, and
eleventh in Oslo with a spicily-anticipated boy band reunion. We forget that
the UK is tied for third most successful Eurovision country, having won a grand
total of five times, and if we look at the numbers, another contender for worst
country presents itself: it is in fact Portugal that has participated the
longest (since 1964!) with zero wins. Perhaps my delicate soufflé Salvador will
have something to say about that soon.
As far as I can see, there are two
main factors contributing to the UK’s recent underwhelming performance: the
general quality of their entries is indisputably poor, and the mutual
antagonism between the kingdom and its tributary continent is memetically infamous.
BBC commentator Graham Norton takes after his predecessor, the much-lauded Terry
Wogan, both Irishmen spouting bitchy quips and generally looking down on the
whole shebang. I hasten to specify that the two cover only the final, leaving
junior lackeys to commentate for the semis — if the UK doesn’t have to compete,
it is apparently not worth watching. It’s hard to shake the conclusion that their
patronising attitude has shaped the views of the British public for the worse.
The juries and voters will have to
find a way to deal with this year’s paradox: the UK is taking its ball back and
leaving the EU in a huff, but has also sent quite a good song to Kyiv — it’s
co-written by barefoot sylphgirl Emmelie de Forest. Lucie Jones is rocking a Botticelli
vibe, performing from within a sparkly, mirrored shell. It’s all golden particle
effects and passionate balladry, and is generally a very strong act. I’m
seriously considering voting for her. But despite the bookies’ optimism, with
Russia’s absence this year, someone will need to provide a vessel for the European
antipathy they typically split halfway. I’m guilty of voting for Russia for the
past two years, but justified it to myself as supporting stunning Polina and handsome
Sergey rather than their government. In such a polarised political landscape (the bulk of opinion gravitating to one particular pole) I
don’t know if many others will do the same for the UK.
Among the countries with uppier
reputations is Azerbaijan, who have never failed to qualify for the final in
their ten stellar years of participation, half of which earned a top-five
finish. This year, goth meets art-nouveau as Dihaj slips on a silky kimono to
represent her country. I’m not completely convinced that the chalk and the
horse-ladder-man are as thematically resonant are they are meant to seem, but
homegirl knows how to rock a bold lip, and delivers one of the catchiest
entries of this year’s crop.
On the other side of the catchiness
coin, we find Estonia squandering a serviceable hook on a dry, languid duet
that proudly namechecks Shakespeare’s greatest tragedy. No, not The Two Gentlemen of Verona. Koit’s melodramatic
posing had me literally laughing out loud, more McCleod’s Daughters than Magnum. Laura would have been far better
off performing alone, and she seems to know it. They were one of many entries
this year that leaned on a clean, monochromatic aesthetic, drawing again from that
inexhaustible well of cultural trends. Cyprus spent far too much time drowning
in an ocean of white, while Bulgaria used the interplay of black and white to
great effect in their disarmingly simple entry. Kristian Kostov nailed those
vocals, displaying particular control over a creamy falsetto range. His alma
mater (that jacket is clearly Durmstrang, Myf and Joel, despite that artfully
tousled fringe) should be proud of that stylish performance, and a top-five
finish is on the cards for sure. Fashion trends are cyclical of course — one
need only glance at a runway or magazine to know that we will soon be waving
goodbye to the trusty old skinny jean in favour of wider denim — though the
ever-flattering head-to-toe black will not soon fade into the annals of history. Switzerland
took the opportunity to push ahead of the curve, staging their entry in fluffy
pink and canary yellow. Those delightful folk Timebelle certainly stood out
visually. This was their best entry in years, the chorus making cunning use of
phonetic resonance, and it’s a shame that it was passed over for admission to
the final.
Timebelle seemed to be really
enjoying themselves all throughout the evening, especially when joking around
backstage. The line between drama and melodrama continues to blur this year,
some entries coming down firmly on the side of the overwrought, and it’s a
delight to see people just relaxing and having fun. Eurovision is a
competition, to be sure, but it’s still entertainment. Moldova and Montenegro both
grok that this year, the former serendipitously overlapping with snazzy
songwriting that has already won over my vote. Those delightful Swedish backup
dancers will be smiling all the way to the top ten, though the same
unfortunately cannot be said for that cute Timberlake acolyte from Austria. (Though
of course it can be said for my toasty marshmallow boy, Salvador.) Nathan Trent
left a charming impression, adorably censoring the word ‘ass’ out of his jaunty
little radio-friendly ditty. Heaven knows what his mother said when she heard
him utter a ‘damn’ in the second verse. I couldn’t say it’s a standout, but
I’ll happily enter it into medium rotation.
Another cheerful little standout is
Romania’s novel yodel-rap fusion dance. Look carefully at the stage and you may
spot some headbanging sheep. It makes such a change to hear a young woman with
such nimble, fine control over her voice, especially when pitted against many singers
who strain to hit those high notes. Other entries were not lucky enough to have
songs written to cater to their strengths and to downplay their weaknesses (like
my tiny sprout man, Salvador): Albania’s Lindita can fell whole buildings with
her skyscraping belt; the Czech Republic’s Martina Bárta has a warm, cosy,
jazzy tone; and Jacques Houdek’s split personality comprises exactly one voice
that could have propelled a very good pop song to the top ten. Each of these
three acts has a (single) lovely voice, let down by lacklustre songwriting. Handy
hint: if I, a non-speaker of Italian, can parse much of your libretto fairly
easily, you are not trying hard enough. Leaning into operatic influences only
works under two circumstances: unironically diving in, like Italy’s superb bronze
medallists in Austria, or turning it into a goofy self-parody, as Sweden did in
Moscow. Il Volo swept away audiences around the world with their magnificent,
rich harmonies, whereas Malena Ernman loosed tactical blasts of soprano
pyrotechnics (as well as the literal variety) from within her glamorous white
gown against a cheesy, cliché dance beat. She sang the chorus in French, naturally,
and I loved every second of it. Do not half-ass your gimmicks, folks. Whole ass,
or no ass at all.
And do calibrate your irony-meters.
Latvia and Greece both sent hopelessly outdated EDM tracks that sound like
Calvin Harris demos circa 2012. I suspect that Triana Park’s was meant to be a
winking homage, judging from the Coldplay-feat-Katy-Perry aesthetic they were
rocking, but it was kind of a mess (unlike my little croissant, Salvador),
especially after sending modern envelope-pushing electronic tracks for the last
two years. Justs got so enthrallingly into his performance in Stockholm, while
Aminata reigned elegantly from her station in the centre of Vienna.
At the end of the day, 2017 has been
a good year for Eurovision: a year of dancing gorillas, bayou cowboys,
overextended stationery metaphors and some seriously excellent eyebrows, and it
looks like my tasty eclair Salvador is in with a chance — his odds have been
narrowing all week, and in a stunning development late last night, he finally
leapfrogged long-time first-place favourite Francesco Gabbani. But even if
Italy does snatch that (well-deserved) gold, Portugal is still on track for its
best placing ever. Who needs nicely tailored suits when you could swim in an adorably
oversized jacket instead?
Whatever happens, my darling
husband Salvador and I shall always stand by one another.
Thank you for your attention.
Best of luck to all.