THIS four-track HOLLY JOHNSON compilation, ”BLAST”, is pretty much what you’d expect: ingratiating little Holly going through his costume changes. These sorts of antics, unlike the tape (MCA, £7.99), do not have a long shelf-life.
The best of the lot, “Love Train”, may have seemed pink-faced and cherubic last year, but now is about as youthful as a fossilised prune. The singing rhododendrons and Magic Roundabout-type scenery are still cute, as is Holly’s elfin dancing, but they’re squelched by Holly’s patent insincerity when mouthing the OTT lurve lyrics.
“Americanos” has the advantage of a social conscience—
“Atomic City” looks the same—
“Heaven’s Here” is the stab at sophistication (ie it’s in black and white), with much slow and stagey footage of groping hands. Holly raises his eyebrows a lot in this one. Not exactly going to make rock history now, is it?
Holly’s problem is that he’s a pop star without charisma. This hasn’t stopped Big Fun you might say, but Holly could do better, He doesn’t even try. He minces through his scenes as if the mere shrug of his shoulders were enough to elicit an awestruck response. It isn’t.