FRANKIE GOES TO HOLLYWOOD
WORDS OF wisdom from the showbiz annals: ‘If you’ve got a gimmick, flaunt it but please don’t abort it—
‘Combines S&M and funk,’ runs the press release. Hmm, sounds appealing to my perverse sense of diversity. Always game for a giggle, you know. A crack of the whip on the humdrum face of London, the scope was infinite but it’s a shame the actuality was awful.
Expecting the Village People in rubberwear turned out to be a big mistake. Frankie Goes To Hollywood are letting their imaginations get carried away—
The sleaze turned out to be a big tease; in fact, a massive bit of bullshit. Two girls (trying to catch the hetereo audience as well, huh!) in suspenders and studs stretched lazily under ladders and toyed with a couple of whips in an absolutely superfluous and unremarkable fashion. The lead vocalist with the San Francisco five years ago moustachioed look wore a skimpy tee-shirt and attempted to move his rib-cage lasciviously while his mate, the cymbal basher and assistant dronist, was doing his damnedest to personifythe ultimate gay macho stud.
The combined effect of this concoction was expressionless lassitude, they created no atmosphere and received no response. There was no action and no entertainment, just plain embarrassment. They were an insult to the gay community.
Their dishwater disco/rock deserves to be cremated without wreaths. They grated and ground and failed to hump or bump through a set of thundering sexual clichés without a hint of danceability.
Need I say more?