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....
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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