nd so we reach JUKEBOX 20 – just like Band Aid 20, except with a few substitutions: Madness will be taking Bono’s place in the ‘depressingly knackered facsimile of your early 80’s self’ slot; Natalie Imbruglia and Daniel Powter will be standing somewhere near the back wondering how on earth they got invited; Uniting Nations will be doing the whole ‘inappropriate applause’ thing; Bonnie Prince Billy will be bringing the ‘Wooo’ noises, and Dancing DJ’s vs. Roxette will be ad-libbing over the outro. Later, Common will be bitching about how jealous Bono is of his lovely falsetto. Oh, and we’ve come up a bit short on the whole ‘blanket media coverage’ thing, too.

Still, we are making history of a sort – not only do we have the first act to come last in the Jukebox twice, but a swift glance at the complete list of UKSJ scores reveals that Eminem is now even worse than Bizarre, too. We’ve not yet contacted Fearne Cotton for her reaction, but we’re guessing it would be “A-Mazing!”


Eminem – Ass Like That
[1.00]

Joe Macare: A white rapper and a hand puppet walk into a strip club. One of the strippers says “Hey, what is this, some kind of joke?” Yeah, just not a very good one. It's not laid-back: it's the sound of a man who can't be arsed anymore. He's scraping the bottom of the barrel. For someone who's made so many great records to sound this rubbish is a real bummer... Okay, that's enough ass puns. Suffice to say: only getting Avenue D in for a remix could save this record, and they're probably too cool for that.
[3]

Alex Linsdell:“WILL DROP PANTS FOR FOOD”
[1]

Edward Oculicz: Where the line between knowingly puerile and horribly infantile is not only crossed, but urinated all over. A horribly anaemic beat, an unendearing rhyme and the word "pee-pee" is used. And Eminem's silly voices are, on this occasion, frankly too stupid to appreciate. What are you supposed to do while listening to this? Dance and shake your arse? To something with so little bottom-end to it? Hardly. One of the worst songs ever, honestly.
[0]

David Jones: Eminem’s flow seems to have lost itself in those clichéd topics that past-it rock stars trot out whenever they’ve nothing left to say. His life having presumably settled down, he resorts to television for inspiration: “every time I see that show on MTV my pee-pee goes…” Get out more and get out of it more, Marshall, I liked you so much better that way.
[1]

Tom Ewing: One of the least respectable CDs in my collection is the album by one Doctor Bombay. Doctor Bombay is not from Bombay, he is from Stockholm and he makes Eurodisco with a smattering of oriental stylings and - here's the sticking point - a broad fake Indian accent. Doctor Bombay is pretty hard to listen to. But not as hard to listen to as "Ass Like That", which boasts a comedy foreigner voice of a level not plumbed since Jim Davison's "The Devil Went Down To Brixton". Seriously, there are Acts of Parliament dealing with this kind of thing. This is a really bad single. Really, really bad. Words-fail-me bad. It's like sitting through the worst comedy routine by the laziest comedian in the world, with these tiny flashes of natural comic timing and ability that just make it more mortifying. I've been entertained by Eminem before, I've been surprised by him, I've been frustrated and annoyed and shocked by him, but I've never until now been embarassed for him.
[0]


Madness – Shame and Scandal
[1.80]

Joe Macare: I've always hated Madness and their wacky, wacky ways. In particular, I've always wished for Suggs, the gurning simpleton responsible for 'Camden Town', possibly the worst single ever released by man, woman or beast, to meet an unpleasant and sticky end. I had hoped that this wish had been granted when he started presenting that C-list celebrity karaoke show on Channel 5. But now he and Madness are back with a cover of Prince Buster's 'Shame & Scandal', which in their hands becomes the musical equivalent of those hilarious, not-at-all racist Malibu adverts.
[0]

Edward Oculicz: A dreadfully plodding, sleep-inducing cover of a dreadful, moderately-obscure 1960s song with the most laboured punchline imaginable (not to mention a dreadfully dull tune) delivered with all the enthusiasm of a band some years into superannuation. It has a wooshing noise in it, that's really the only difference.
[0]

Alex Macpherson: Hideous, slack-jawed, old man lairy, tediously dribbling litany of British and working class clichés. Fuck off you utter twats.
[1]

Tom Ewing: The young whippersnappers who make up my fellow panellists were smacking their chops with glee at the prospect of laying into sad old Madness. "Be off with them," I cry. Madness were supreme, one of the best pop acts Britain ever produced, up there with the Pet Shop Boys. And the best thing of all was they split up at just the right time, with "Yesterday's Men", one of the great bittersweet hits by a band who knows its time is passing. "Yesterday's men, hang on to today, to sing in the old-fashioned way. It must get better in the long run." So the first bit turns out to be true, but it's got far, far worse. There can't be anybody whose heart is truly gladdened by this limp bit of comedy ska, and certainly nobody who would put it near their old singles. Well, maybe Jools Holland would, but you know what I mean. Don't remember them this way.
[2]

Jessica Popper: I didn't know Madness were having a comeback until I saw them on T4's "Pop Beach" singing this new song about incest and illegitimacy, rather than any of their hits. Very odd. Can they go back in the dumper now?
[2]


Daniel Powter – Bad Day
[2.50]

Jessica Popper: I know it's cheesy and unoriginal but I really like this song! It's great for radio and for singing along to, which is important and pretty useful when you want a hit.
[8]

Alex Linsdell: Keane do “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road”, which would be quite a neat prospect if you overlooked the Keane-aspect, but that is the prevailing aspect here, tsk.
[1]

Joe Macare: A Woody Harrelson lookalike bemoans not his life, but yours. He's trying to be all sympathetic and stuff, but the problem is, when the 9-to-6 and commuting and bank statements and bills get too much, I want a song that accurately reflects my bad day vibe without making it even worse. Say, 'Hard Life' by The Sharp Things. Not this. Anna from The OC is in the video, because that's all she does now. Now there's someone who could use some sympathy... But not Mr Powter's.
[2]

Edward Oculicz: Music to be alternately ignored and annoyed by in supermarkets. Particularly ham-fisted when the (comparatively) loud chorus (remember, we're talking boring mostly-acoustic strummer boredom here) comes in.
[2]

Fergal O’Reilly: Oh dear, this is excruciatingly annoying. I confess to not having made it to the end as yet, so if the last minute brings a sudden, unexpected lurch away from anodyne, yelpy-voiced piano-bashing mongery then y'know, sorry. Actually, nah - "where is the moment we needed the most/you kick up the leaves and the magic is lowst-uh" - this shit is irredeemable.
[0]


Common - Go
[4.10]

Jessica Popper: Is it just me or does this song sound the same the whole way through? It doesn't seem to have choruses or verses or anything. Just "g-go" backing track with rapping over it. It's incredibly dull.
[0]

Edward Oculicz: I like the echoey "go" that recurs throughout this, that's really good. Otherwise this is a very by-the-numbers, but none the worse for it Kanye production (he is a better producer than he is a rapper), spoiled by some pointless wicky-wicky turntable noises and the fact that Common appears to have absolutely no extant charisma and the delivery is as uninspired as the words.
[4]

Joe Macare: I'm increasingly convinced that Kanye West's production duties for other artists in 2005 are all the result of a cunning strategy to make other artists (who might otherwise appeal to certain Kanye West fans) sound bland and boring. Of course, half the time Common needs little help in this regard. Listening to the verses, it would appear that this song is supposed to be about sex. If this song is an accurate reflection of Common's bedroom prowess, insert joke about his split with Erykah Badu here.
[5]

Alex Macpherson: Common does a sex record. He couldn't sound less thrilled. I know how he feels. Has Erykah Badu left him yet? She's far too good for him.
[2]

Paul Scott: Despite a title that promises forward motion, this seems content to lazily mill around not doing very much at all. It seems more redolent of the heat induced apathy of an unpleasantly sweltering summers day than the breezy effervesce it is perhaps aiming for. Uninspired, unnecessarily graphic lyrics and a lazy production job rob this of the sparkle or kinetic energy it so desperately cries out for, leaving the song as flat and undesirable as lemonade left in the sun too long.
[4]


Natalie Imbruglia – Counting Down The Days
[4.86]

Doug Robertson: So, what exactly is the point of Natalie Imbruglia? She’s inoffensive enough to turn up on your local radio station’s playlist, but she won’t even put the boat into the water, let alone let herself be in any danger of rocking it. Sure, ‘Torn’ was pretty good, but that was 8 years ago now, and if we judged people on how they performed 8 years ago, then Tony Blair would still be enjoying the undiluted adoration of the masses. The world’s moved on since then, Natalie hasn’t. Unfortunately for her, her fans probably have.
[4]

Alex Macpherson: Imbroolyooly's worst affectation - there are many to choose from - is surely that breathy gasp she does throughout the chorus, chirruping "I wanna travel through - time!" as if she's heard about the adjective 'girlish' and is making a valiant but futile stab at manifesting it. Or possibly it's the way she draws the notes out for a quite unnecessary length of time in the opening couplet, as if by elongating her vowels she can invest lines like "I don't wanna be here / If you're gonna be there" with any kind of emotional impact or meaning whatsoever. 'Torn' was years ago, anyway - isn't there some kind of statute of limitations on how long a career can be extended on the basis of one good song? There should be.
[2]

David Jones: Natalie, Natalie, Natalie – you used to be so perky and now you just want to be in Keane. Somehow this is all Radiohead’s fault isn’t it? If they hadn’t produced all those sad songs with echoey production ten years ago - and done them brilliantly – this lumpen, reheated version of their sound wouldn’t be de rigeur for ‘serious’ music. I laughed out loud when those incongruous church bells chimed out over the chorus. But then in Australia it is Christmas during the summer, isn’t it? And water goes down the plughole backwards? Cheer up, Natalie, think of all the bubbles of love we made!
[3]

Edward Oculicz: Being the only Natalie Imbruglia fan in the universe can often be trying (all the people that sent her album to number one are of course those 12-CD owning people, AREN'T THEY?), particularly when the woman can't pick her singles. This has bells on it, some awful lyrics, quite a nice melody and a much stronger chorus than a verse which has a very agreeable guitar chug to it. But the bells! Everyone else is probably citing them as the worst thing about them, and they are completely wrong. She goes country rock on her next single, you know.
[8]

Alex Linsdell: In a few months time Alexis Strum will emerge with a singularly more delicious take on the Natalie strum-loop-downplayed template (which this track adheres to pretty rigorously) and she will attempt to render Natalie commercially null and void and she will FAIL, at least in terms of superseding Nat, because Nat is canny and not always as shite as is assumed. This is not special but neither is it rubbish; it has a bang-bang-bang-bang drum part in style of “Pounding” by Doves, which is vaguely surprising, and the first chorus twists to a hasty conclusion, which similarly wrongfoots you, and there are some pretty hefty and lovely bells; when in doubt, bells. And it sweeps to a halt. Lovely. Miraculously for This Sort Of Thing, Nat makes a big virtue of understatement, leaving not so much as a trace of a footprint of angst behind. Not moving, but touching.
[6]


Uniting Nations – You And Me
[5.70]

David Jones: Last year the United Nation’s Hans Blix scandalously claimed that he had been bugged by Britain during the lead up to the Iraq War. Now the whole of Britain is being bugged by Uniting Nations. That’s karma, for you.
[0]

Edward Oculicz: A bounding, uncomplicated, feel-good dance anthem to conquer all just like they used to make so well in the late nineties, and evidently still do, much to my delight. Not even remotely cutting edge in any way, the beat is all a bit 90s but it has a giddy, infectious enthusiasm that raises a stupid grin; one melody stretched about as far as it will go but it's more than good enough to withstand such malapportionment of invention. Your uplifting summer dance anthem has arrived, you wlll learn to love it eventually, just like you did the last one.
[10]

Joe Macare: It is tempting to say that this is “classic Europop” if you like this sort of thing, “generic piffle” if you don't. However, I'm not sure even those who like this sort of thing could ever be so indiscriminating that they could be enthusiastic about something this... flat. There aren't enough intoxicants in the world to make this sound exciting.
[2]

Alex Linsdell: Uniting Nation’s last single was pretty much perfect, and this is almost identical, except “Out Of Touch” kind of started at the top and worked down, whereas “You & Me” starts at the bottom and works upwards. As it is with life, so it is with Uniting Nations; this is the better record because, musically if not lyrically, “You & Me” is pop as manifest destiny, the heady lurch from the gutter to the stars, or maybe the sonic equivalent of trampolining your way to spectacular levels of physical fitness. When it breaks the surface and gasps for air it is euphoric; also weirdly empowering.
[8]

Fergal O’Reilly: Shares so many constituent parts with "Out Of Touch" you wonder if they have a machine that can churn these things out by itself. This wouldn't be a bad idea if they were always that good, but this is just the same template with all the compelling elements smoothed off into a blandly cheery sludge, and lacks either the pounding insistency or the emotional weight of its forebear/clone.
[3]

Tom Ewing: I don't know how people can say pop's dead when the filter-and-sample style is so thriving. Obviously most dance music has a business interest in euphoria and an eye on the rush, but the phased, woozy bliss of "So Much Love To Give", "Call On Me", "You And Me", "Out Of Touch", "Waiting For A Star" et al. is the most open-hearted and accessible club sound since handbag's giggly heyday ten years gone. These records verge on the critic-proof: the same samples, the same tricks, the same well-oiled basslines turn up on multiple releases, blurring into one long high. The lyrics are loops, the song structure dissolved, there is no build or movement in the track, just a permanent soft climax. It's as near to pop concentrate as man has yet discovered.
[10]


Martin Solveig - Everybody
[5.80]

Edward Oculicz: This is a bit insubstantial and dull to be the latest French reinvention of disco. Points are for the ridiculous, but all-too-short wanky solo in the middle.
[4]

Fergal O’Reilly: Brutally simple and all the better for it, being basically a 4/4 kick beat, a three powerchord riff and what I gather is a 65 year old man growling with considerable gusto. Manages to build to quite an exhilarating climax while still remaining oddly understated; it never really explodes in quite the way you expect it to, but that's not necessarily a bad thing. Also: killer guitar solo.
[8]

Paul Scott: Sort of a midpoint where the vaguely danceable punk funk flavours of !!! and Tom Vek cross over with the chart bothering, discotheque filling four to the floor stuff that people tend to actually head out and buy. Unfortunately this also includes the worst vocals traits of both genres; the straining and grunting noises that the punk funkers mistake for not sounding like the sounds of an orang-utan pleasuring itself, and the smarmy joyless croon that blights many a dance anthem. At well over six minutes of soulless grinding it rapidly overstays it already tenuous welcome.
[3]

Doug Robertson: The vocals in particular yelp with a raw power and the guitar part, when it kicks in, would sound great in a hot, sweaty nightclub, but it takes so long to get there and the bits in-between are just so much filler that detract from the main event, rather than build to it. It’s always sad to see talent washed down the plughole like an unwanted spider, but if this had had a bit more body and the legs to carry it, it could have got out of the bath and into the slightly more comfortable environs of the plush bathmat below.
[5]

Alex Linsdell: This is incredibly, spectacularly bracing, but it makes me extremely frustrated that I can’t summon the correct technical term for the chk-a-chk rattle thing that shimmers lusciously between the beat and the vocal; anywhere else this would be kind of handbaggy, but here is it a little bit, y’know, superfly, and, funky fresh, even. Yes. Said chk-a-chk gets a whole minute to itself at the end and deservedly so. Props also for managing to have a guitar riff and whole bunch of noodling that are glorious instead of horrific, and extra-double-triple love for the massed vocal climax that occurs a minute before the end. I am not going to use the word ‘orgasmic’ though; maybe ‘lusty’. The whole thing slides together and apart and together again over the course of six and a half minutes, and at no point is it overloaded, or boring.
[7]


Lethal Bizzle – Uh Oh (I’m Back)
[6.25]

Paul Scott: Over beats and a screechy synth just about interesting enough to support the weight of his ego Lethal proceeds to congratulate his own prowess in achieving a number 11 hit in the first week of January. This was a week in which only three other records were released. But even his attempts aggrandisement seems rather dull; “How’s that for the CV?” Presumably recently typed up on Microsoft Publisher. Is the man looking to be a successful rapper or get a position in middle management? The half thought out playground chanting that masquerades as a hook expects us to be worried, or at least care about his return. but with the preceding raps being so light on substance his chances of raising even the mildest degree of enthusiasm in the casual listener seems a little unlikely. Please come back when you have something to say.
[4]

Tom Ewing: Have to say it's nice to get a grime single in the Jukebox which doesn't sound like music hall or bad stand-up. Cheap and punchy, this doesn't move anything forward but it's solid - and kinetic - enough to do the job it was designed for, establishing Bizzle as a contender again, whetting the appetite for the next move.
[8]

Doug Robertson: In his dreams, this is what Dizzee Rascal sounds like. Hell, in my dreams this is what I sound like, despite the fact that my somewhat comfortable Edinburgh based existence doesn’t really provide the basis for a successful hip-hop career. Clearly a man who enjoys his Ready Brek judging by the sheer energy that spills out from this track, Lethal Bizzle aggressively spits out more lyrics than an angry llama and posesses such a fire that he’s probably banned from going near petrol stations. Truly an impressive piece of work.
[8]

Alex Linsdell: It is breaknecky self-aggrandisement like “Stand Up Tall” was, but not chromey or bleepy or godlike or unexpected enough to delight as that did. Just similar enough for it to suffer horribly in comparison, though. There’s nothing really wrong with this, it is slick and sprightly and cartoonish, but ThalBiz isn’t charming when he talks about “judges’ arse(s)”, mostly he seems to be talking about himself in the third person a lot and discussing how he is back and how he is great and is going to have a successful and flourishing music career. Which is nice, for him, but nothing here suggests that we should be interested; pop-Science, then.
[5]

Alex Macpherson: There's something very endearing about the way Lethal B's sticking determinedly to the 'Forward Riddim' formula of scattershot gunfire beats and trebly synths bouncing off the walls at an illegal rave. As the third in the sequence so far 'Uh Oh' is inevitably slightly less worthy of going mental and leaping around to than its predecessors - and it can't be denied that "UH OH!" is a totally lame thing to shout compared to "POW!" - but this doesn't matter in the slightest for two reasons: 1) it's as close as Real Grime is getting to the charts in 2005, and 2) it may be massively dumb but it is also massively fun, and most importantly massively massive. The kids love it!
[9]


Bonnie Prince Billy & Matt Sweeney – I Gave You
[6.78]

Doug Robertson: Despite what you may have been led to believe by James Blunt, Stephen Fretwell and pretty much anyone who you’ve ever met at a party who wants you to hear one of their own songs, acoustic guitars aren’t inherently bad. Like a snooker ball and a sock, it’s a perfectly innocent piece of equipment, but in the wrong hands – generally anyone who’s a bit mopey after being dumped – it becomes a deadly weapon. Here Bonnie Prince Billy – who does, admittedly, appear to be a bit mopey about being dumped – turns in a plaintive lament to a girl of whom he seems to have given everything, only for her to reject them - had they actually been married he would at least have had a cheap divorce settlement. There’s a fragile beauty to this track, but ultimately it doesn’t really go anywhere, preferring instead to meander down the roads of misery, and what’s at the end of that path generally isn’t too appealing.
[6]

Paul Scott: Like Bright Eyes, Bonnie Prince Billy ploughs a furrow of claustrophobic folkie strumming and general wilful misery, albeit with a voice that suggests emotionally desolate middle age rather than the over wrought pains of adolescence. Thing is, unlike Bright Eyes, Bonnie Prince Billy is not a rather pretty young man with millions of adoring teenage fans and US hit albums. He at least looks like he might have something to be justifiably miffed about. Whether his angst is any more "authentic" or believable is a moot point really; your tolerance to this song pretty much relies on how the idea of wallowing without respite in unforgiving tales of lovelorn despair actually appeals to you.
[6]

David Jones: This sounds so completely different from everything else on this week’s list, so utterly devoid of airs and graces, that I want to embrace and stagger home with it frankly. Without wanting to fall into dubious and rockist ideas about authenticity, it’s so good to hear actual human beings playing actual instruments, not straitjacketed by click track or submerged under a flood of studio syrup. “I gave you a child, but you didn’t want it – that’s the most that I have to give/I gave you a house and you didn’t haunt it, now where am I supposed to live?” This is about as good as stripped-down Americana, mournful crooning and narratives on the subject of compulsion all get.
[8]

Tom Ewing:"I gave you a house and you didn't haunt it" - that's a good one, that is, someone should nick that. Bonnie Prince Billy and I go way back, and though I don't ever listen to his records any more I can respect him, his songwriting and his fake vocal antiquities. I'm guessing Mr Sweeney's job here is to do the music, which balances uneasily between acoustic picking and a wheezing, droning guitar sound that makes me think of Loren MazzaCane Connors. Not a name I expect to see crop up in the UK Singles Jukebox for a few more years. I'd have liked more of the wheezing and less of the picking, or maybe the other way round, but either way I'd have liked a decision to be taken.
[5]

Alex Macpherson: Will Oldham's voice is one of those things you listen to when you need to stare into the void. Its bleakness is total, and it brooks no argument. It quivers and wavers along its undulating melodic lines, but it never cracks, because Oldham deals in despair beyond emotion. And you know what? Paradoxically, this is some of the most comforting, restorative music I own.
[9]


Dancing DJs vs. Roxette – Fading Like A Flower
[6.90]

David Jones: I’d be genuinely interested to discover where, in the British Isles in the year 2005, you would be likely to hear this record.
[0]

Tom Ewing: I would be perfectly happy if the Government passed a law tomorrow saying that every single 80s soft-pop hit must be converted to filter form by the end of, oh, 2007 should do. This is excellent, but compare it to the meringue majesty of Uniting Nations and flaws become apparent: a slightly over-extended sample, the guitars a touch too grating, the bassline not quite as nimble. Mustn't quibble, though.
[9]

Fergal O’Reilly: Hmm. A melodramatic Roxette power ballad treated to make the odd unexpected squelching noise probably warrants at least an 8, but the anonymous filterhouse bit subsequently welded to it's a 2 at best, so we'll call it 5 and say no more about it, eh?
[5]

Joe Macare: I've been saying for a while that Roxette must be a due a critical rehabilitation. In the absence of that, however, they will have to settle for a big, dumb, monumentally cheesy revamp of one of their songs by people who call themselves Dancing DJs. The first time I saw/heard it, I thought perhaps I was losing my mind, or had accidentally ingested some weaponised hallucinogens. A bit like the Crazy Frog. As with the Frog, but much more quickly, I have come to realise this is no bad thing.
[8]

Alex Linsdell: Roxette ballads are as top-quality a sow’s ear as you’re likely to find; if this isn’t quite up to silkpurse levels of merchandise it is certainly a pretty zappy piggybank. “Listen To Your Heart” was always spectacular August thunderstorms and would have won the day, no bother; “Almost Unreal”, more of an undervalued welterweight, might have been twinklier and parpier; nevertheless, this is a much better choice than “Crash! Boom! Bang!” would’ve been. It’s great, and the only times it threatens to be less so are when they start fucking about with the song itself and making it st-st-stutter and repeat lines and things; there was absolutely nothing wrong with it in the first place. Likewise the zigzag Altern-8 scribble bit that keeps cropping up doesn’t need to be there, they should content themselves with bunging a 4/4 beat underneath it and leaving it at that. For the most part, this is what they have done, which is fantastic.
[8]


Bananarama – Move In My Direction
[7.00]

Alex Macpherson: Oh come on. Pop kids, up your standards! 2005 may well be the year in which British chart pop as we know and love it keels over and dies on its hotpant-clad arse, but surely we are not so desperate as to allow any old 80s has-beens to reform and slip through the back door? Any success for 'Move In My Direction' would seem like the final nail in the coffin. It sounds tentative, unremarkable, already dated; all interesting musical hints swiftly snuffed out as it resolves steadily towards the generic. Meanwhile, Bananarama sing it like their old royalties have just run out. Go back and listen to 'Cruel Summer' back-to-back with this, and weep.
[6]

Paul Scott: Bananarama don’t sound jarringly out of place amongst the current pop landscape; this could easily pass for one of Kylie or Rachel Stevens’ less memorable moments. There are some nice little touches - curious noises that jump out of the production, cute vocal effects and piles up of voices - but these should be the sparkling finish, the icing on the cake if you will. Like many of the disco pop mediocrities that make brief flirtations with the top 40, however, no amount of little touches can disguise such a plainly mediocre song.
[4]

Joe Macare: Don't call it a comeback! No, actually, you can totally call this a comeback. The suspiciously well-preserved Bananarama are back, and they're doing Nu Kylie almost as well as the real thing - whoomp-whoomp housey bits, instantly memorable chorus, a great refrain of “why does wrong feel so right?” near the end. There's also one part of the production that sounds almost too close to an equivalent part of 'Can't Get You Out Of My Head' for comfort. I suppose you could argue that their credentials give Bananarama the right to steal things from people who so clearly followed in their footsteps first time around. And you'd be right.
[8]

Edward Oculicz: Their best single in 18 years (i.e. since "Love In The First Degree"), thanks to following a 10-year-old formula - get those good-hearted Swedes in to fix you up real good. A bit of a heaving dance behemoth, sounding like Geri Halliwell's "Ride It", but much more filled-out. Repeating middle eights over choruses is always a good idea. I would dance to this if it would get played somewhere other than scary gay clubs and my bedroom. The synth-strings opening is also rather good.
[9]

Fergal O’Reilly: Bit of a cynically bolted together electropop Frankenstein ('s monster) which will probably provide a lot of sport for annoying people in clubs who like to cleverly expose similarities between songs by loudly singing the hook from one over the other. Left to my own devices I can't get "Thong Song" out of my head. It is, in all fairness, very good, but in a slightly perfunctory "will this do" sort of way; it just feels like a parade of cool noises and vaguely familiar hooks without any real overriding sense of inspiration. Oh, and Bananarama are singing on it, apparently.
[7]

Alex Linsdell: Hard to say what a new Bananarama record would sound like in 2005, given that they were last seen sticking stubbornly with the Stock/Waterman (if not Aitken) dream team at the one point in the past twenty years when it could not have been less fashionable to do so. But this sounds exactly as you’d expect, and in the best possible way; they hitched a ride under Kylie’s little fingernail at the end of ’92, anxiously watched the seat-edge rollercoaster saga of her wilderness years and subsequent sparkling renaissance, and, inspired by the latter, chose 2005 to be the point at which they would emerge to reclaim their place in the framework of the Pop-Not-Quite-Cutting-Edge. Please Yourself was bouncy but hackneyed SAW tropes given a big old kick up the arse by some joyous collaborative songwriting; likewise, “Move In My Direction” is gurgly flamenco filter-disco straight out of 2001 that makes up for the absence of shock-of-the-new tactics via lashings of fizzy shapeshifting charm, and through being so fundamentally Bananarama-y. Vocally they are still the female Neil Tennants; rueful, not much range, have no truck with histrionics or ‘technique’; totally refreshing and instantly comforting and recognisable. So they steal through the molten silver throb of “MIMD”, and it is a record that in some respects is completely Then (4 years, 13 years, 23 years ago), but also gleamingly Now, and they sound like no one but themselves.
[9]