Technically (if not musically) one of
the most impressive contests of the modern era. One that did the UK|Raine™ proud, too,
never ignoring the elephant in the room but focussing on celebration and unity
– with its tongue firmly in cheek at times, yet always with a great deal of
affection. The final produced a surprisingly strong line-up of performances.
01 Norway
B: Like an underrunning episode of a TV
series, the Italian prologue is added here to get it up to broadcast length but
doesn’t add a great deal to it. The words chime with the rest of the lyrics,
and the rest of the song, but muddy the waters in what is, on the whole, a
resolutely Scandinavian take on proceedings. Maybe she’s just honing her
language skills for the inevitable Valkyrie conquest of the Mediterranean. “A
firestone, forged in flames” is an evocative image in an otherwise humdrum set
of lyrics where empowerment is paired with laidadadilaidas and dam da das.
A: But
then this is a [North] sea shanty, to all intents and purposes. A surprisingly
ethereal one in places, it has to be said, Alessandra’s vocals ranging from
growling and insistent to something much more tempered and glistening. They
nicely offset the bombast of the composition, which drums you into submission
with a relentlessness that’s brutal, if mercifully brief.
V: A curvalicious whip-crack of a performance
from Ms Mele, who puts in a good show despite not quite hitting the squealy
note either time. It all makes for a thumping opener to the semi. But even
within the EBU’s new rules, how does the Italian opening qualify as backing
track when it’s the main vocal of the opening bars? True, you don’t necessarily
know it’s her providing them, yet if you do, it’s odd to see her just staring
down the barrel of the camera while they play around her. Elsewhere, although I
know it can’t have been an oversight and I’m not sure I would have wanted more
anyway, her dancers might justifiably have felt short-changed from getting so
little screen time.
02 Malta
B: Some clever (and
identifiable) stuff in amongst this lot, including “the social tease of
anxiety” and “When the tik gets toking I’m gone”. It’s the identical twin
separated at birth from its even more awkward Czech sibling Introvert Party Club.
A: Fair
dos to them, they stuck to their busking roots in composing this. There’s a recognisable Chromeo vibe to both the music
and the vocals which is welcome for being so easy-going; its build is
inconspicuous but effective. For my money the composition’s nicely layered as
well, and I love the echo of the percussion throughout. As a hook, however, the
sax line is undeniably repetitive. The song’s described as
“a little bit of soul, a
little bit of pop, and a little bit of funk”; some might argue the problem is that it’s a bit too little of
anything.
V: Dav. Jr gets a tad
lost in the mix at times here, but – and this will come as news to no one –
he’s damn cute. This is a colourful, unselfconscious performance from the lads
that’s cleverly put together, if perhaps a little too busy in places. With
those lyrics they’re basically inviting the audience not to vote for it, so I
hope they took their non-qualification in the spirit they intended.
03 Serbia
B: Luke lists Eartha
Kitt as one of his influences, and there’s definitely something of the camp
Catwoman to him and his aesthetic. Not so much his lyrics though, which have a
whiff of the black dog about them – and not for the last time this year. If the
whispered Serbian admissions (“Noć je, beskonačni sati / Na ramenu djavoli”) don’t make it clear, the likes of “I just
wanna close my eyes / And get it over with” leave little room for doubt. That
said, it’s hard to blame him or argue against “Razum spava / Dok svet gori”.
A: Another percussive
treat. The vocal arrangement being so disconnected from the music in the verses
is a clever touch, as are the vocal effects bubbling away beneath the main
vocal line. The music itself is dark and shifting in places, looming in others,
and feels claustrophobic and inescapable at times. On the whole, it’s probably
one of my favourite instrumentals of the year. That this dreamscape is
translated into the language of gaming fits perfectly and yet feels a bit
reductive at the same time.
V: Techno-opera with a
hint of fetish, but ultimately Hatari-lite. For something this visually
distinct it’s strange that it doesn’t always hold your interest, but maybe
that’s because Luke’s thin vocals are already testing your patience. His eyes
tend to roam in search of the cameras too, distractingly, though at least that’s
confined to the semi. Kudos to him for conceptualising the whole thing – music,
message, show – but there are moments where it feels like he’s bitten off more
than he can chew.
04 Latvia
B: Interesting that
both the Balts chose to augment their entries with nods in their mother tongue
to elements of their folklore. “Aijā, aijā, saldā miegā” isn’t quite as
effective as “Čiūto tūto” but forms a lovely coda to the song, which
works very well back to back with Serbia for its answering of “I just wanna sleep
forever / Like it better when I dream” with “I’ll try to /
… / Sing you lullabies / Please don’t wake up”. And in the end it comes full
circle, with the narrator deciding he doesn’t want to wake up either. Depressing,
but prettily put.
A:
Continuing the parallels with Samo mi se spava, this too feels quite
dreamlike for its occasional 5/8 timing and musical emphasis. The lead vocals
pair well with the music in its more pensive moments, especially the acoustic
outro, but otherwise lack the oomph the more insistent bits of the song demand
– which fits thematically, but doesn’t do much for the overall effect. Bonus
points for the counterintuitive use of the electric guitar to underscore the
more fragile moments in the lyrics.
V: Andrejs is
note-perfect, and the way he finds the camera right at the end is the cherry on
top of a very good performance. (His diction has always irritated me
slightly, but that’s another story.) The warm glow of the
orange and gold against the inky backdrop suits the shifting mood of the song
so much better than if they’d gone for the pastel tones and quasi-surrealism of
the video.
05 Portugal
B: I love the
self-flagellation and simultaneous shrug of the shoulders in “O doutor diz que não
há nada a fazer / Caso perdido, vi-o eu a escrever”. There’s a great bounce and rhythm to the
lyrics throughout.
A: This sets out its
stall from the opening bars and defies you to spurn what it’s offering. I can
see why some might turn their noses up at it, but I’m sold from that opening
flourish on the ivories and the tantalising promise of the first line. From
there it pulls you in and spins you round in a whirlwind of musical exhibitionism that sometimes feels [and at points is certainly edited in a way that sounds]
cobbled together but nevertheless works perfectly. There are touches of brass
and woodwind in the mix that are content to play second fiddle to the rest of
the arrangement, and they’re all the better for it. What I want to call the
Spanish guitar, but which is probably something more appropriately Portuguese,
is a delight throughout. I’m aware the whole thing’s a sales pitch on the part
of Mimicat, but what can I say? She had me at hello.
V: The look she’s
going for is clearly meant to be sultry cabaret dancer, but comes across at
times as frazzled harlot. I’m assuming the abandonment of the version with the
beefed-up backing vocals used solely for the final of Festival
da Canção was a deliberate
move to showcase Mimicat’s voice here. It works – the crowd go wild for her big
note at the end, but are responsive throughout to what is a playful and
energetic routine. She’s more than good enough in the semi to make it through
to Saturday, but once there, gratifyingly, she ups her game, producing the best
vocals of any performance of the song from FdC onwards.
06 Ireland
B: “We give it all we
got until we fail” is only half-right in this instance. It makes me doubt
they’ll deliver when they promise that “When we go down, we go down”.
A: However
futile an exercise in writing a song for Eurovision this may be (and 20 years
too late at that), it does have a properly anthemic feel to it – bog-standard,
to be sure, but hummable after a single listening, with the “catchy pop harmonies” their bio promises.
The scratchy vocals suit the song in studio but don’t bode well for it live.
V: Much has already
been said about Conor’s outfit, and since I’m all for body positivity and
freedom of expression through fashion I’ll simply limit myself to adding:
Jesus, Mary and Joseph, what the fuck was he thinking?!!?!
There’s so much wrong with this performance that it’s hard to know what to pick
apart first. The pointless staircase which Conor, face like suet pudding and looking
as though he has no idea where he is, descends like an old person unsure of
their footing? The hair, make-up and outfits on the drummer and keyboardist,
which are every bit as hideous in their own way? Our unlikely lead’s nifty
camp little bit of footwork as he makes his way down the catwalk? The weird
hand-in-quicksand thing on the satellite stage? But more perplexing and
annoying than any of these is Conor simply not singing half the song, treating
the occasion as if it’s an arena show he’s the star of and this is the closing
number everyone in the audience knows the words to, when it’s clear he’s doing
it because he just can’t sing. The sheer number of ill-judged moments makes you
think the whole thing might have been a joke on the part of the anti-everything
stage director they eventually sacked. I suspect it’s not a mistake that the
band’s official page on Eurovision.tv has the Icelandic performance in place of
their own.
07 Croatia
B: I might be wrong,
but I think ‘Mama’ here is a metaphor.
A: With its
repetition and easy hooks interspersed with attention-seeking musical mummery
you’d be forgiven for thinking this was a children’s song. It’s like one of
those TV shows or films that’s ostensibly for younger viewers but which features
all sorts of references only the mums and dads watching it will get – and in
this case the message comes with a clear PG rating, however much it’s dressed
up. The oppressive synths and strings in the verses hinting at the darkness
that inspired the song are a welcome discovery.
V: It’s drag
storytime live, bordering on panto. (The guy with the sparking oversized
rocket is every inch the villain of the piece. “He’s behind you!”, etc.) It
strikes me as going for the kind of appeal Georgia was aiming for last year, only
cranking the insanity up a notch or two dozen and actually achieving it.
Frontman Zoran is minutely ahead of the backing track at the start (and
slightly off in places throughout) in the semi, albeit in a way that’s barely
noticeable and doesn’t matter at all, since he’s back on track in
the final. It’s sweet that from
their response to the audience’s enthusiasm they genuinely seem to feel right
at home in the Eurovision bubble.
08 Switzerland
B: The infamously
neutral Swiss have been accused of tone-deafness in breaking their silence with
this anti-war missive, but despite its occasional clunkiness I feel its heart
is in the right place. What lines like “Can’t turn and run / No water guns /
Just body bags that we’ve become” lack in nuance they make up for as an
indictment of the cannon fodder of war. Indeed, this and Croatia back to back
make for another fitting (if accidental?) pairing.
A: Quietly powerful
arrangement, this. The tremulous first minute in particular suits it perfectly,
conveying a sense of shame and mourning. The terrifying slide down the violin
strings into the second verse adds to the tone and heralds the song making a
more forceful stance against the subject that prompted it. Remo’s vocals work
well against this backdrop, with a cogent but also vulnerable maturity to them
that never lets you forget he’s barely more than a kid himself.
V: Our Remo looks
like a police artist’s composite of a sweaty teenage lesbian suspected of
crimes against couture. His voice feels slightly constrained in the lower
register of the verses, but the rest of the song showcases his abilities nicely.
The staging is pure SJB but works surprisingly well in context – like the use
of pyro in the act, it’s both thoughtful and fairly minimalist. The colouring
of the floor graphics at the end of the song makes it look like he’s kneeling
on a giant sperm.
09 Israel
B: Do unicorns fart
rainbows? Is that their secret power? Maybe that’s yet another layer of meaning
in this veritable mille-feuille of a lyrical concoction, which is
apparently all about Israel and Israeli identity and such. Which it may well
be, but the imagery’s still quite strange. The ‘femininal’ bit’s clever, even
though I thought she was just mispronouncing ‘phenomenal’ the first time I
heard it.
A: The instrumental
version of this song is a revelation, demonstrating that it’s not nearly as
disjointed a composition as it tends to come across as a finished package.
True, there’s still a sense of it being a bit ADHD and distracted in its focus
at times, especially when it’s only got three minutes to say what it wants to,
but as a whole it works much better as a piece of music than it appears to at
first. There are some great synths and strings in there, and various other
ear-catching additions to the arrangement that make listening to it sans vocals
very rewarding. Not to undermine Noa’s contribution, of course: she sounds
fine, particularly in the verses.
V: “Ein li da’awin”
might be true in the metaphoric sense, but it’s blatantly not when it comes to
this performance. Heavy-lidded Noa is probably a better dancer than she is a
singer – her vocals are good, not great, and never more exposed than on the
ill-conceived long note in the second chorus – but she’s no Chanel either way,
and the last 30 seconds of the routine are so much writhing around on the
floor. She’s gorgeous though, and it’s impossible to dislike her. Her smile
comes straight through the screen at you. The light-box prop is one of the most
effective we’ve seen in the contest in some time, and while the strut down the
catwalk is pure Israel-at-Eurovision, the rest of the choreography is actually
quite measured.
10 Moldova
B: Positively pagan!
Judging by “I-am cântat eu doine
multe / Pân-a vrut să mă sărute ea” she agreed to marry
him just to shut him up.
A: True to its folk
roots, however synthetically enhanced, this is stripped back in parts (which
works well) and incredibly repetitive (which doesn’t). The karaoke version
reveals some instrumentation and underlying vocal effects you’d otherwise have
no idea formed part of the song. Pasha’s vocals, by turns revelatory and
reverential, are convincing in studio…
V: …but live he gives
a whispered and ultimately breathless performance in which he barely seems to
be singing at times. I’m disappointed in the stage show, which, like the song,
is dull and repetitive in parts: the headdresses on the backing vocalists
produce its only truly memorable visual, and ringing in the little guy feels
faintly exploitative, as he’s almost literally made to jump through hoops at
one point, and doesn’t really add anything to the performance in the end.
11 Sweden
B: It’s nice to
finally read these lyrics as written, because I now realise a) that I had no
idea what half of them were, and b) how closely they align with what Hold Me Closer was saying last year. They don’t have the same heft or impact –
they’re too self-absorbed for that, undermining the insistence in Loreen’s bio
that she uses her music “to challenge her audience with messages of inclusion
and representation”. Unless, here, that constitutes demanding her own inclusion
in the life of the person who’s presumably cleared off because she’s too
high-maintenance.
A: I wish the vocals
here demonstrated a little more restraint early on: it all gets very insistent
very quickly, the first chorus ramming the protagonist’s insecurities straight
down your throat. The music is a little more circumspect, to its credit,
holding back until the second chorus to unleash its full force. Whether by
chance or design, the bridge in its entirety and the closing strings are
incredibly reminiscent of Ray of Light-era Madonna, and for
me are the highlight of the composition.
V: She’s a star and no
mistake. She gives everything to this performance, which I’m not entirely sure
I understand. Why the impractically long nails? Is it because she’s trapped
inside a heated terrarium, like a lizard partway through shedding its skin? That’s
assuming any of it’s supposed to mean or do anything other than create
arresting visuals, which it surely does. But for my money the performance never
looks more cinematic than in the sweeping, stormy long shots of the final
chorus – when, I think it’s fair to say, it looks most reminiscent of Euphoria. Loreen’s vocals are assured throughout, but her nasal delivery of the
bridge into the chorus still irks.
12 Azerbaijan
B: Not quite as needy
as Tattoo, but getting there.
Its message is arguably more inclusive. “I don’t know if I’m someone or someone
is me” exists in that blurred space between the utterly meaningless and the unexpectedly
philosophical. It’s indicative of a set of lyrics that say more than you think
they do at first glance.
A: Inspired
by ’60s and ’70s styles the boys may have been, but their song is straight out
of the ’90s. The Sixpence strum of it all is refreshingly laid-back and indeed
unambitious on the part of the Azeris, and though they ended up none the richer
for it, I hope (like Malta) it doesn’t discourage them from trying more
homespun stuff in future. That opening
‘Aaaaaaaaah!’ makes it sound like Tural or Turan – whichever one is doing the
dialling – has achieved his purpose in phoning the sex line before the actual
lady at the other end has so much as said a word. (Either that or he’s got a Kølig Kaj crush on the woman
who does the recorded voice.)
V: I’ve been wracking my brains for months now and
I still can’t work out who it is they remind me of. Whoever it may be, you
wouldn’t know from this performance that it was their first time on a big
stage. The split-screen thing works well if you’ve no idea there’s two of them,
and feels like a throwback to the ’90s of its own in a Sliding Doors kind of way. Things get away from the purple one a bit as the
excitement mounts, but on the whole this is charming and understated, with
lovely harmonies and gorgeous outfits.
13 Czechia
B: What I said about
the Swiss lyrics, basically. At least where the anti-war message is concerned.
“Blood’s on your God’s head” is refreshing for being so outspoken, and the
whole message is made more powerful by a sixth of it coming from an actual
Russian. On the female empowerment front, the imagery is no doubt
unintentionally Shakespearean in “Дай ръка не се страхувай / С другите сестри
поплувай / В морето ни нямаме място за тези омрази”, taking [up] hands rather
than arms against a sea of troubles. And in further literary parallels, Olesya
looks like Pippi Longstocking.
A: I’ve heard this a
hundred times now and that opening still goes on for a couple of bars too long
every time. The quasi-ecclesiastical arrangement of the vocals in the chorus is
the highlight here and speaks to the sanctity of the lyrics. Nice quiet use of
strings and synths in the bridge – right before that last powerful pass in
particular – reflecting the vulnerability that’s contrasted against the determination
displayed elsewhere in the words and music.
V: The vocals are
somewhat ragged in isolation, but if ever there was a performance that was
going to benefit from the backing track, it’s this one. And it does: when the
choir kicks in towards the end it sounds amazing. (It makes up for Tanita’s
rather limp rap; almost whispering it sends out mixed messages given what the
rest of the song is saying.) I remarked after seeing this in the semi that it
feels like the first time the Czechs have really got what a Eurovision
performance is meant to be about, which may be a bit unfair to their successful
recent efforts, but watching it back now I get the same feeling. A lot of
thought has gone into it, as have a lot of elements, but without overloading
it, and it feels very consistent. Offsetting the predominantly black-and-white
backdrop with various hues of pink could have been a disaster but instead
provides one of the most distinctive three minutes of the contest.
14 Netherlands
B: Markedly lower of
brow than their initial press guff, Mia and Dion’s official bio goes some way
to convincing you the pair are people you might actually connect with. “I don’t
find any joy anymore / From the same old cycle” sums up the entire evolution of
this entry, which is ironic, because it aims for transformative but never quite
manages it.
A: It’s tempting to
think our 2019 winner going by his birth name of Duncan de Moor in the writing
credits of the entry on the official site was a conscious choice to distance
himself from what must have increasingly seemed its inevitable result. The
compromise version we got in Liverpool might have neutered his and fiancé
Jordan Garfield’s vision of the song, but for all that there’s nothing shabby
about it; underwhelming perhaps, but nothing to be ashamed of. In any case the
original is well produced, with a fine ending especially. It just takes a while
to get there, making the preceding two and a half minutes less duet than two
people singing different bits of the same song.
V: I’ll just say it’s
about as good as they were ever going to make it and leave it at that.
15 Finland
B: If any two lines
tell you everything you need to know about this song and the guy singing it,
it’s “Parketti kutsuu mua ku
en oo enää lukossa / Niinku cha cha cha mä oon tulossa”. I 💚 his unironic love of
piña coladas.
A: The cheery little
heys! among the almost menacing choruses in the first half of the song are
adorable – they’re like a precursor to the shamelessly dansband
denouement. That shift in tone remains the most problematic part of the song,
but it mixes its heavier metal with synthetic schlager to produce a workable
alloy. Sure, Electric Callboy might have patented it first with We Got the Moves, but Käärijä’s version proves just as effectual
in its own right.
V: It’s crazy, it’s
party! This, Conor, is how you do body positivity. As soon as Käärijä pops up out
of the top of the packing crate you know you’re in for three minutes of fun,
and it snowballs from there. My favourite moment is when he does his little
sideways shuffle down the catwalk, which raises a smile every time I see it.
He’s not the greatest vocalist Finland’s ever produced, but within the context
of the performance it doesn’t matter a jot, since it’s not the point and he’s
good enough regardless. He seems determined to entertain, and entertain he
does. But amidst all the fun it’s easy to overlook how technically complex this
routine is and how flawlessly they pull it off. He handles almost getting decapitated
by a wire like a pro.
16 Denmark
B: “Do you remember?
/ Said it’d be easier if I was dead.” The OED just slid into Riley’s DMs asking
if they can have this song as their new definition of ‘dysfunctional
relationship’. It’s all horribly one-sided and delusional, but more believable
for it. We’ve all been there.
A: There’s
something pleasingly ’80s about the synthy furrow this ploughs. It’s always
struck me as being not very Danish, but then it reminds me of Kadie Elder’s First Time He Kissed a Boy, so I guess it is Danish,
just not in a Eurovision context. Which is why I’m all the more glad it made it
to the contest, however ignominious its fate. Processed to within an inch of
its life though it may be, for me it’s one of the year’s strongest pop
propositions.
V: With “nearly 11 million
followers on TikTok [Reiley will] be urging every one of them to vote for Breaking
My Heart.” I mean, good old
Iceland proved more loyal and even they couldn’t bring themselves to throw more
than six points his way. And yet his vocal isn’t nearly as wretched as it seems
– for the most part it’s quite controlled. But it’s also very empty, and the very
nature of the falsetto leaves him exposed. Alas, the studio version waved these
red flags – or if not red, then very pink. The performance doesn’t exactly ooze
with confidence either:
unlike the last artist with a rotating house who dealt with a prop malfunction
with aplomb, Reiley takes forever to peel the scribbled-out heart off the
camera, producing a lingering ugly opening to things, then is visibly
self-conscious about hitting the right marks and being signalled about the set shifting.
His tugging of his jacket turns into something of a tic as well, and while the
final pea-green colouring they go for is a nice contrast to the predominant
reds and blues in the rest of the show, it doesn’t complement his outfit at
all. The result is that the entire three minutes feel awkward and
underrehearsed.
17 Armenia
B: “The Armenian
singer-songwriter has been belting out tunes since the age of 4, but she’s
moved on a bit from the nursery rhymes that marked her out as a natural
performer.” Indeed – she’s
graduated to Tumblr quotes! Still, she deserves praise for penning the music
and [the rest of] the lyrics herself. The rap is the best part. I particularly
like “Fire in my veins,
heart in chains / … / so hypnotised by someone that I’ve never ever met
/ … / Three minutes of making impossible plans / Seven minutes of unnecessary
panic attacks”. By the time the
Armenian epilogue comes round, the glass half-full has become more than
half-empty.
A: Lovely, lilting
arrangement in the opening verse, or whatever we’re calling that bit – it’s an
oddly structured song. The strings and percussion introduced in the first
chorus presage the punchier rap, which nevertheless remains underpinned by the
flowing piano. It’s all sounding suitably epic (or perhaps manic) by the end, when
it peaks and trails off in a style reminiscent of – and which makes it very
much the spiritual successor to – Not Alone.
V: Unnecessary
dance-break alert! Part 1 of 2. (Although at least this one’s decent.)
Interesting use of light and shadow, colour and its absence; it’s a confident
delegation that has no problem plunging its performer into darkness. Brunette
both looks and sounds great in her own right, but benefits further from being
bookended by duff performances in the semi.
18 Romania
B: That’s three relationships
on the trot which, real or imaginary, are uniformly unhealthy. At least this
one exhibits a tad more self-awareness if “The scent of mistake just reminds
you of me / And now all of your demons keep screaming my name” is anything to
go by.
A: I
assume they thought the acoustic opening would serve as a better showcase of
Theodor’s vocal abilities, or perhaps just as a way of making the remaining two
or so minutes more bearable. But then his vocals are the least of this song’s
problems, which no amount of gloriously audible sliding along the fingerboard
was going to solve.
V: Tremendous opening
tracking shot, even if the stage does look like it’s covered in sex dolls. Beyond
that… sheesh! If it wasn’t for Theodor paying her no heed whatsoever, you’d
think the woman who appears out of nowhere at the end to smear him in Marmite
was a stage invader. The conservatives upstairs at Romanian TV obviously
weren’t bothered about that, but they were worried about Theodor’s
outfit looking too gay; I’d have been more worried about it looking awful
myself. Kudos again for the positivity though when you’ve got a perfectly
normal body you shouldn’t be afraid to show lest the trolls deride your lack of
a six-pack. (That said, the close-ups revealing that even the best make-up in
the world can’t disguise the ravages of acne are terribly unforgiving.) I hope
“Orice alţii vorbeau / Mie tot nu-mi păsa” was Theodor’s response in the wake
of his failure, especially if the rumours are true that he was simultaneously
hamstrung and hung out to dry by the broadcaster from the get-go.
19 Estonia
B: [OCD editor mini-rant re: “All the lies I’ve told myself” vs “All the lies I
said before”] How can you get the
collocation wrong after you’ve already got it right earlier in your own
lyrics?!
A: The
way the vocals slavishly follow the rhythm of the music (and indeed the music
itself) in the chorus here annoys me, even more than the opening line of said
chorus, which to my mind is horribly clunky. The
quick-cut-it-off-the-three-minutes-are-up ending has always rankled, too, since
it’s calling out for an ending every bit as overblown as the rest of the song. But
to give it its dues as a composition, the piano harmonies are lovely, and the
strings have an appropriate and likeable delicacy to them when they’re not
being overweening.
V: There’s not much
point turning round to mime playing a piano that’s already been laboriously
established as playing itself. Still, that’s not what this performance is
about. It’s a masterclass in vocal control, and while we all knew it to be the
case, it bears repeating: Alika can sing. Pity it’s this song, whose staging,
perhaps inevitably, borders on pretentious, with odd and unnecessary and
occasionally banal bits of choreography. For it to come within a gnat’s cock of
NQing – well, alright, the gap between Estonia and Iceland was more of a gulf,
so a sperm whale’s cock – and then go on to finish comfortably within the top
10 in the final is the ‘Tsk, juries!’ moment of the year. On the plus side, the
glacial blue wall and flooring is pretty, and Alika’s looking way better than
she did in Eesti Laul, having been given an impressive hair and fashion
makeover.
20 Belgium
B: Ooh, he’s worked
with Hercules & Love Affair! In light of the fact that Gustaph was “pushed in directions
he wasn’t happy with and encouraged to keep quiet about his sexuality” early in his career, it’s vindicating to
see him reclaiming himself in such a joyous way and being rewarded for it. It
really is the transition from “You told me to love myself / A bit harder than
yesterday” to “See now I love myself much more than I did yesterday” writ
large.
A: Feel the nostalgic
rush! It’s not often you get uplifting songs like this in a minor
key. (Or is it?) A decent stab at a ’90s house anthem, although late ’80s dance
music called on an early mobile phone the size of a brick and asked for its
era-defining vocal effects back. Woo! Yeah!
V: There’s so much
love on stage here, and indeed in the audience, who sing along from the opening
line. Gustaph is an incredibly reliable performer, and such a sweet one that
you can’t help but cheer him on. The pink, black and white of the Czech staging
works just as well the second time round, and the dancer is marvellously
androgynous. The whole thing’s just brimming with positivity. The only
misguided moment in the entire routine is the overhead shot at the start of the
second verse, where the black splatter on the floor makes it look like he’s
just shat himself.
21 Cyprus
B: “I got used to all
the ways it hurt.” Fnaar. There’s some decent wordplay in these lyrics (“You
filled my life / With minor songs”, “You lift me up and leave me in the gutter”
et al.) that elevate it above the usual fare of this nature.
A: Much better than
it seems, this is a song that does a good job of concealing its best qualities.
Some are almost completely lost beneath the more forthright components,
including the cavernous vocals: the fluttering piano is a highlight, as is the
swirl of strings. But all told the elements work well together, a mixture of
bluster and reserve that mirrors what Andrew’s singing over the top of them.
V: Quite the
turnaround from the damp squib of Electrify in last year’s
Australia Decides. He nails each and every high note, and only shows signs of
running out of puff towards the end. Rarely more than serviceable visually or
vocally, the stage show nevertheless works as a whole and serves its primary
purpose, which is to get them through to the final. The fact that it exceeds
expectations there is a little more surprising, I’ll be honest.
22 Iceland
B: How to build up
credibility and then fatally undermine it in one sentence: “The song was written
and produced by a big name in Icelandic pop, Pálmi Ragnar Ásgeirsson, who was
also behind María Ólafs’ Eurovision 2015 entry Unbroken.” Lyrically though this is another nice
thematic pairing, following on from Cyprus. It displays an equanimity not all
of us are able to muster in such situations: “Tired of finding meaning in the
dark / I’m releasing all of you / In gratitude” is very mature. “I’ll take my
flowers while I can” lets the side down a bit, but then I guess picking ‘power’
as your lyrical anchor limits your rhymes.
A: I’ve never been a
big fan of drum’n’bass, and this hasn’t done anything to win we round. The
acoustic opening makes a promise it never delivers on, while the echoing vocals
add some much-needed depth to the song but only serve to show how empty it is. With
next to no variation, it’s a very long three minutes.
V: It’s left entirely
up to Diljá, and to a lesser
extent the cameramen, to inject energy into this performance, which is a vocal
powerhouse but little else. Hair and outfit are a choice, for starters. (In the
case of the latter it’s only the orange lining that suggests it hasn’t been
beamed in straight from ESC99.) The flowers on the LEDs are boringly literal but
at least add momentary splashes of colour; the rest is unrelentingly dark.
There’s one shot in the bridge before the final chorus where Diljá’s on the satellite stage
and an overhead angle makes it look like she’s being flushed down a toilet,
which as predictions go would prove accurate come results time. She was the
only artist in the Green Room who seemed resigned to failure before the first
qualifier was even revealed, so I hope it didn’t sour the whole ESC experience
for her.
23 Greece
B: There’s a major
disconnect between the kid excited by perfecting his signature cinnamon rolls
in the official bio and the angst-ridden teen of this suicide note of a set of
lyrics. I mean I suppose the two aren’t necessarily mutually exclusive, but
it’s a jarring leap from Junior Bake Off to the likes of “I hate my feelings /
I’m overwhelmed” and “for me it’s too late”. He claims he’s not an actor, but ‘Victor
Vernicos’ sounds like the name of the middle-aged business mogul housewives
love to hate in a daytime American soap that’s been running for a thousand
years.
A: Who was it that
kickstarted the whole affected pronunciation thing in songs? They’ve got a lot
to answer for. It renders some of what Victor sings here genuinely
unintelligible. I have a lot of time for his vocals otherwise: it’s astounding
they come from someone so young. I’ve always quite liked the music as well,
which to me is as consistently angst-ridden as the lyrics – never more so than
when the stabbing, slightly psychotic strings are introduced around the
two-minute mark, with a churning, underwater quality to them. Overall I think
it’s a very coherent piece of music.
V: Sadly, they felt it
needed an equally fidgety performance. Give the kid some Ritalin! The opening
bit where he seems to be lying inside a wordsearch is like even they can’t
figure out what he’s singing: it’s all Greek to them as much as it is to
everyone else. Victor – who has amazing eyebrows, and an outfit that makes him
look like a zookeeper’s intern – does his best to gee the audience up, but he’s
lost them by the end of the second verse, and some frantic jumping about the
stage isn’t going to do anything to reverse that. In terms of performances that
don’t work, this comes a startlingly close second to Ireland in retrospect.
24 Poland
B: She tryna get all
up there in her ex’s face, but I’m not buying it. You can’t fake attitude.
A: The
basic bitch of this year’s bunch. It’s catchy enough, but entirely predictable
in its progression. USP-free, zero value add.
V: Competent, but
never trying harder than she has to, and indeed in certain parts not trying at
all, Blanka is both the lynchpin and weakest link in this performance of Useless Dance Break: The Sequel. It doesn’t help that the backing dancers
all look like they’ve been drafted in from children’s TV. On the plus side, the
bass sounds great live and the tropical backdrop is a boon, especially after
the tortured darkness of Greece in the semi.
25 Slovenia
B: “Živeli, kot da jutri
nas mogoče več ne bo” sums up their
Eurovision experience. “An ban, pet podgan / Ti loviš, če preživiš / Jaz ti bom vzel
vse” sounds like they were
asked to describe Squid Game in a Slovenian
haiku.
A: Playful and
inclusive but not putting up with any of your shit, this “shagadelic
softboi rock” is a breath of fresh air in this year’s line-up. It slickly oozes
confidence without tipping over into self-congratulation, and only ever takes
itself entirely seriously when challenged, upon which its celebration becomes a
minor act of defiance. TL;DR – it’s a bloody good song.
V: It’s a shame then
that the lads overegg the pudding in Liverpool, given how effortlessly they
sold the song upon its unveiling in Ljubljana. The darker-haired of the two
guitarists is the biggest ham of the lot, but they all get in on it. The
staging though, with minimal use of the backdrop and lighting, does have more
of an arena concert feel to it, and for all their overacting they still
effortlessly fill that niche. I just wished they’d toned it down and let the
song speak for itself, since it’s more than capable of doing so.
26 Georgia
B: The fact that Iru
is near as damn a native speaker of English makes the dog’s breakfast that is
these lyrics even harder to comprehend, especially when she’s given a co-credit
on them. (Hopefully just for the royalties.) You can count the lines that have
no mistakes in them on one hand. They’re also repeated ad infinitum, but given
the alternative was even more gobbledygook, I doubt we’re missing out.
A: Composer Giga
Kukhianidze’s Junior Eurovision roots are arguably on display here in the chagadaradamda-chimidimidantas,
and perhaps in the vocals, which in the verses can’t help but sound girly. It’s
only the first chorus and second part of the song that give Iru the chance to
show what she’s truly capable of. The strings brought in when there’s barely
more than 30 seconds left make this the second song after Tattoo to have
a bit of a Frozen feel to it (Madonna’s Frozen, not the Disney
film). That section is the best bit of the song, and given it takes its time
getting there and doesn’t really make up for the rest of the three minutes, it
accounts for why this is the year’s most obvious case of ever-diminishing
returns.
V: “Sing!” I mean of
all the songs to try and get the audience to chime in on, this is hardly the
one. You’d have to have a clue what she was rabbiting on about for a start. I
think it says something that I mistook the quiet(er) bit at just over two
minutes in as the end of the song while watching it back and then sighed when
it dragged itself out for another 45 seconds. Mostly that’s the fault of it
showing no restraint or subtlety, with Iru delivering her [otherwise
impressive] vocals at full-blast from the opening line. First prominent use of
the LED screens as more than a static backdrop, incidentally, and it does help to
give the performance a distinct look.
27 San Marino
B: “I can smell you
like an animal” is such a gross line. Is it the butterflies in his ears that he’s
smelling?
A: Opening your song
with its chorus is always a risk, because it’s normally your biggest hook, so
you’re putting all your cards on the table from the off. If it’s underwhelming
– and this one is definitely that – where do you go from there? (‘Nowhere’ is the
answer, as its result so cruelly demonstrated.) The ending’s hideous, and goes
on forever. At least without the screaming in the instrumental version the
underlying music is easier to appreciate. The only truly redeeming feature of
the composition for me is the more nuanced approach to the verses, but that’s
hardly enough to save it.
V: I’m sure lead
singer Andrea is a very nice guy – and who ever thought the thing he’d have in
common with La Zarra would be a love of Mr Bean – but he looks
creepy AF here, and while he nails the final screamy bits in a way he doesn’t
necessarily manage with other parts of the song, it still sounds terrible. The Piqued
Jack with the quiff could be Swiss Remo’s older Italian cousin. Nice Pop-arty
visuals.
28 Austria
B: I love this – it’s
clever, satirical, meaningful and fun. Certain aspects of it might indeed have prompted
the audience to wonder what the heck it was about, especially the
zero-dot-zero-zero-three interlude, so I hope the commentators did their bit to
explain. “Give me two years and your dinner will be free” and “At least it pays
to be funny” are the highlights.
A: This is just as
clever musically as it is lyrically. The bridge is the best bit, on both
counts, but the whole thing’s an overlooked triumph.
V: The crowd are
po-po-poeing for all they’re worth, and who can blame them? It’s a song and
performance that’s crying out for audience interaction. (Iru, take note.)
Assured vocals from Teya & Salena, which only go marginally astray when
they’re giving us their otherwise enviable harmonies, and even then noticeably
so only in the semi. It’s a fun, candidly attention-seeking three minutes whose
crowning glory was and always will be that towering UGH.
29 Albania
B: It’s all very
exclamatory (“Duje! / Si dikur ti
duje / At’ dashni ti ruje! / Si jeten ti duje! / Mos e gjuj me gure!”) and, it seems, accusatory, as though
Albina’s blaming the very parents she’s singing the song with of breaking up
the family and throwing away everything they had. But they all appear far too
cheery for that to be the case.
A: Well, you’d never
mistake it as anything other than Albanian. As integral as the vocals are to the
overall effect, take them off the track and you hear all sorts of things you
might otherwise miss that stamp it with one unmistakable double-headed eagle
after another. It’s a rich piece of music, if weirdly constructed and with a
terrible ending. Ageless in its way, too – it could easily be the 2003 entry of
theirs we were denied by the EBU.
V: Like a cheap knock-off of a successful Western product
manufactured behind the Iron Curtain, this telenovela is one I’ve taken to
calling The Kardashurians. Naff, but undeniably good, it’s ultimately
rather likeable: I don’t think I’ve ever witnessed a breakdown as magnificent
as Albina’s. Kudos to the fam for providing 100% of the vocals live, and for
doing so without a hint of a stray note. The singing dad’s hilarious, as is the
slightly more reticent brother, whose early interjections sound like he’s
throwing in a “She’s got a point!” about whatever Albina’s telling us. He’s easily
the least enthusiastic about the hanky dance, whereas, adorably, the podgier of
the two sisters, cute as a button, appears to be having the time of her life.
30 Lithuania
B: As incantations
go, “čiūto tūto” certainly works its
magic here, becoming the keystone the song was lacking until very late in the
day. “Finally my heart is beating” indeed. The lyrics as a whole augment this
from a standard ballad into something recognisably more anthemic.
A: What would the
portmanteau of contemporary pop and gospel be? Perhaps it would just be called
G-pop. However it’s labelled, this is a rousing example of it. The
eleventh-hour addition of the folk mantra was inspired, since it anchors the
entire thing while elevating it slightly above the well-meaning but more
humdrum fare it would otherwise have remained. The only thing that irks me
about the song is the way the end of each verse runs head-first into the
oncoming chorus.
V: As tends to be the
case with gospel, this sounds much better on stage than it does in studio, so
praise the Lithuanian baby Jeebuz they opted for live vocals across the board. The
orange and purple palette here makes for a nice (and marked) change, but every
iteration of the orange dress is awful. Nice
lighting effects throughout. Monika seems stuck in her head at times, more so in
the semi, preoccupied by hitting her marks and perhaps the notes. But she does
that perfectly, so she needn’t have worried. It doesn’t undermine the
performance as a whole, which the crowd seems genuinely fond of.
31 Australia
B: Have you ever done
anything like this before? Well, have you?! Vaguely threatening opening
(“Promise me you’ll hold me till I die” is odd as well) to what is otherwise a
pretty positive set of lyrics. “Cross my heart / Till the sky turns red in the
sunrise” is a nice turn of phrase.
A: It’s such an
obvious closer that it’s like they wrote it visualising the end credits of the
contest running over the winner’s reprise. At least they got that, of sorts, in
the semi-final. For all my initial reticence towards it – mostly, to be honest,
because it wasn’t Dreamer – I’ve since come
round to its high-powered, anthemic appeal. It does work well in some of its
less strident moments, such as when the piano comes to the fore in the last
minute, but it’s the unexpected and unexpectedly transformative keytar solo
that seals the deal. The way the song subtly reinvents itself in that final
flourish is one of the musical highlights of the year for me. Unusual and
interesting harmonies throughout, too.
V: Cracking stuff. Some
of the impact’s lost when they’re sent on to play midfield in the final, but
still. Going the whole retro hog, they seem to be decked out in the livery of
the (I think) now defunct Australian department store David Jones.
32 France
B: Quite needy, these
lyrics, aren’t they?
A: The first half of
the verses exists within a range of about three notes, so I’m glad La Zarra
gets a chance to show off her vocal chops elsewhere. 60 seconds is a long time
to tease the positively but unimaginatively discotastic two minutes that
follow, which do everything you might expect them to with confidence but little
imaginative flair. I don’t not enjoy it, but nor does it do anything for me
that dozens of other similar songs don’t. On top of which, the transcendent
conclusion to the Australian entry only reminds me how peeved I was (and still
am) that Évidemment doesn’t do more to
give itself the big finish it’s crying out for.
V:
Claiming “mes reins / Plus rien ne m’appartient / J’me fais
du mal pour / Faire du bien / J’oublie comme si c’n’était rien” is ironic given she
hardly moves throughout this performance. It’s like she’s been impaled by the
Inquisition. “Je suis nue devant vous / Donnez-moi donc une
chance”
clearly fell on deaf ears. Among the audience as
well, given the lukewarm reception it got, the vocal French – or at least
Francophone – contingent in the fan circle notwithstanding. But what do you
expect when you complain from the off that “On a beau être sur le toit du monde / On ne
peut toucher le ciel du doigt”. Don’t stick yourself
on a Chanteuse de la Liberté plinth then! Her vocals start going ever so slightly
off-piste from about halfway through, most notably (and unfortunately) on the
big “Grande France” note, but on the
whole this is a good performance. The effect of the golden shower is mostly
lost with all the light reflecting off the glitterball panels.
33 Spain
B: “As a child, Blanca
raised a duck in her bathtub” is much more
relatable than the immediately preceding waffle about her music “[connecting] us with
what is pre-rational and instinctive” and “[exploring through experimentation
and experience] the parts of our soul that go beyond words.” Let your songs speak for themselves, girl! Stuff
like “Mi niño, cuando me
muera / Que me entierren en la luna / Y toas las noches te vea” is lovely.
A: The heir to the
non-existent Eurovision fortune of Remedios Amaya, Blanca Paloma is doomed to
failure in the ESC arena: however brilliant it may be, Eaea is even less accessible
than Quién maneja mi
barca. The sung bits I can take
or leave (I’ll leave them, thanks). The music on its own, on the other hand, is
a fascinating proposal – a discombobulating soundscape that radiates a sinister
sort of innocence. I’ll never love it, but I love that it’s there for me to
listen to and scratch my head at.
V: Flawless vocals.
And camerawork, for that matter. Mesmerising. Alienating, but mesmerising.
P.S. In her shout-out to the audience at the end of her performance, how does
she manage to pronounce the ‘eu’ in Europe as ‘dew’?
34 Italy
B: Beautifully
tortured. The bridge in particular I like: “Tanto lo so che tu non dormi / Spegni la luce
anche se non ti va / Restiamo al buio avvolti / Solo dal suono della voce / Al
di là della follia che balla in tutte le cose / Due vite guarda che disordine”. The whole thing’s layered in meaning,
whether Marco intended it that way or not.
A: Beautifully
orchestrated, too, but you’d expect nothing less. The changes in tempo hint at
the dichotomy at the heart of the song, so they get a pass for that, but shorn
of their lyrical justification they feel like a tease with no payoff. The
instrumental version also shows that as effective as the music is, Marco’s
vocals do most of the heavy lifting in imbuing it with the requisite passion.
V: The flags, the
leather-daddy postcard, the subtle stage show, the less subtle fashion, the
blink-and-you’ll-miss-it oil slick of rainbow colours penetrating the gloom,
the refracted light from the prism on the cover of the album this is the first
single from… Come out like no one’s watching, lad! (Even his bio gets in on it,
camping it up with “This is not Marco’s first time at the rodeo” and informing
us that since he last graced us with his presence his albums “have gone
69-times platinum. Nice.”) We get only infrequent glimpses of the queer
gymnastics playing out in the background, which ties in nicely with what the
song’s [probably] saying. Marco gives me the intensity I longed for and only
saw in his winner’s reprise at Sanremo, and holds it together until the closing
moments, when, finally and endearingly, he allows his emotions to get the
better of him.
35 Ukraine
B: The perfect
message both for and from the reigning champs. “Незважаючи на біль / Я продовжую свій бій” indeed. Слава Україні!
A: A spartan
composition in every sense, Heart of Steel is selective about
what it deploys and when it chooses to do so. It’s polished, like all Ukrainian
entries, but retains a defiantly gritty edge and throbs with a power that’s
ominous for being so restrained. Jeffery’s soulful vocals float above all this,
the human face of the unstoppable machinery beneath. As a package, it’s very
effective. I only wish I liked it more.
V: Such artistry in
the visuals. The colour scheme’s inspired as well. It’s not the most immediate
song, so these help to focus you in on it. And it sounds good.
36 Germany
B: “We’re so happy we
could die” is a terrible line and no doubt the exact opposite of what they were
feeling by the end of the voting. Hopefully a month later (at time of writing)
it’s more a case of “Never forget? Let it go.”
A: This takes a
similar approach to Finland in mixing schlager with metal, but the result is infinitely
more banal. I think it’s because the starting points themselves are both so
uninspiring. It doesn’t help that when frontman Chris isn’t screaming “Bloooood
and gliiiiittterrrrr!” in our faces his vocals discourage us from taking either
him or the song seriously. It really does teeter on the edge of parody in
parts.
V: The puntastic
“genre-fluid” certainly applies here: it’s like a Drag Race/Next in Fashion
crossover where the models wearing the losing queens’ outfits have to lipsynch
for their lives to a distinctly RuPaul take on death metal in a Berlin sex
club. Without having been taught how to tuck.
37 United Kingdom
B: Properly
cathartic, and the sassiest of middle-finger pop. “I could have cried at home /
And spent the night alone / Instead I wrote a song… / I was ready for a
sentence baby / Instead I wrote it all down.” You go, girl!
A: Very solid. Which
probably sounds backhanded as a compliment given the weight of expectation on
the UK, especially this year, but it’s nothing to scoff at. It’s well made and
has some neat hooks, making it both chart-friendly and chart-worthy. It does
that thing a lot of songs these days do in not really setting its chorus apart,
and it could do with being a bit more spicy considering it’s one big fuck-you
(the Spanish guitar being merely a nice touch rather than a musical knee to the
groin), but those quibbles aside it’s one of my favourite songs of the year.
V: To listen to,
anyway. Going by her bio, that’s quite the impressive performance portfolio Mae’s
built up to make this lacklustre a fist of her own entry. That isn’t entirely
down to her: her vocals, which are generally fine, just don’t have enough power
to them, and are also too low in the mix, meaning they’re outdone at every turn
by the backing track. She, or whoever stage-managed the whole thing, also seems
to have thought that a Carry On approach would be a
good idea, which takes what should be proper sass and makes it knowingly and
yet unconvincingly saucy. And I don’t know what they spent all their money on in
this performance, but it seems to have left wardrobe with so little that they
had to recycle the Portuguese dancers’ outfits. More attractive than them by
far, and more engaging than the song and performance at times, are the visuals,
which are a sort of mash-up of Andy Warhol and Monty Python. They do a lot to distinguish
the entry, which isn’t the unmitigated disaster I might otherwise have made it
out to be; it’s just frustrating for its untapped potential.
1 point goes to Italy
2 points go to Lithuania
3 points go to Belgium
4 points go to Slovenia
5 points go to Sweden
6 points go to Latvia
7 points go to Portugal
8 points go to Australia
and finally...
12 points go to...
Austria!
The wooden spoon is awarded to Romania. But
Ireland can have one too for that fucking awful performance.
U In loving memory of the Eurovision key change (1956-2022)
