FRANKIE GOES TO HOLLYWOOD
THE MUCH publicised ‘personal appearance’ did seem to hint, through the muddle and rant of Morley’s advertising prose, at some new angle, concept or at least something blindly different. The evening was, simply if not purely, an advert… not necessarily a bad thing. A short and snappy mime.
Before the event, I asked Morley what was to come (sic). “Oh, it will be (H)horny,” he replied, cleverly. The pun escaped me for a while but returned in full evidence as Frankie Goes To Ardwick ran through their neatly timed cavortings onstage to the typically unsubtle ‘horny’ soundtrack. But why so obvious, Paul? Such predictability fails to subvert. They don’t seem to exploit, enhance or parody the art of sleaze revue. They merely copy. Don’t do it. It turns you bland.
So where is the content behind this form? Where, indeed, is Frankie? The record isn’t at all bad. The song, or rather the hook-line is reasonable and, against all odds, manages to survive Horn’s cute but hardly benevolent ‘bouncing noise’.
Frankie Goes To Hollywood are, as in Dollar, as in ‘Lexicon’ ABC, mere smiling infants playing the game. Fitting the mould. Bending over backwards to suit the whims of the wimp. Together, they make sweet (sickly) music. Fine, but not the gigantic leap forward Paul Morley would have us believe.
They are the product of the producer which is something which runs in perfect harmony with the current, rapidly declining chart situation.
Surely Paul, you of all people must realise your position. Up there and not, as once was the case, out there. Street noise from the Fairlight? It won’t wash. It may be good. But important… never (see Tom Waits).
Frankie Goes To Hollywood. Pure showbiz. Another bleedin’ happy jig.