The Ultimately Empty Million Pounds

Comedy, the final resort of the bland, is killing music. And like bad comedians, [a]Funki Porcini[/a] isn't funny....

The Ultimately Empty Million Pounds

3 / 10 Comedy, the final resort of the bland, is killing music. And like bad comedians, [a]Funki Porcini[/a] isn't funny. Oh he used to be: two albums of cool sample-strewn funk can testify to that, but now we find the prankster hiding behind a huge joke, dribbling bad dinner jazz and rubbing two damp twigs together as he searches for that initial spark of inspiration.







That clever gag? Something to do with subverting the meaning of adverts; juxtaposing images and text in a desperate bid to say something new or, failing that, ironic. Much like the Porcini, in fact, who has made a record of such startling irrelevance that you wonder whether its existence is due solely to a contractual obligation. Or a sick bet. The problem lies chiefly in a fundamental inability to maintain any sense of cohesion, as he flounders from big band big beat ('Theme From Sugar Daddy') to odious lounge fodder ('Cheasy Rider', 'Butler's Groove'), while piecemeal flukes like the rousing 'Rockit Soul' bother the more attractive reaches of mediocrity.







"Includes free pop music," boasts the cover. But no, it doesn't. It just contains rubbish.

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