I hated Jacques Houdek’s ridiculous song in two-thousand-and-thankfully-forgotten. It was bizarre beyond belief that a broadcaster thought that this was a decent shout and the press of Europe (such as it is) made its feelings clear in the pressroom by guffawing.
He’s rehashed that song, and lumped it in Roko’s lap, strapped a pair of wings to this pile of shit and said “Sing that, son”. Roko has talent. He has a voice. He has everything that should have made Jacques go: “Here’s a fine song”, but all he’s got is a shouty gimmick that looks all shades of wrong.
Underneath the layers of angelicness, there is a song, but it’s buried so deep that the televoters will see wings on a singer and switch off. If they listen to the lyric, they’ll find that the Rhyming Dictionary that Malta uses has clearly found its way to Zagreb, and has been deployed in such a way that I want to scratch my eyes out listening to the symphony of shit.
Phil’s score – Nil Points
