It’d be nice I reckon if this actually was a case of genuine déjà vu; reminder of what the great Giorgio Moroder once was and sounded like. Instead this is anything else – on its quest to be everything else.
This is one of those grotesque and totally unnecessary reputation-sullying returns. A shame because of course there was his inclusion – in name and voice (and style-aping) on Daft Punk’s last album. That caused a stir. Then there was the fact that the septuagenarian hit out with his first DJ sets just the other yet. It felt like a big – full – comeback was on the way.
But this is just insulting.
Okay, lead single, 74 Is The New 24, shows hints of his brand of Moog madness and disco tinges. And as an “update” of “the sound” its both exemplary and yet still wide of the mark. If this was the miss of the album things might be okay. But this is easily the hit. And it’s still largely fucking atrocious. Yes, yes, it’s recognisable as Moroder, but in this case that’s not exactly a good thing.
Elsewhere the funk tips are blunted down entirely. Smooth-cornered and colourless but neon-speckled still this pulses and strobes and goes nowhere quickly then loops back to do it again. A range of guest vocalists mean nothing, do nothing, take the music nowhere.
Britney Spears ruining Suzanne Vega’s track Tom’s Diner (given the correct makeover long ago by DNA) is particularly loathsome. Kylie Minogue can’t do anything (decent) with Right Here, Right Now and Kelis is no substitute for Donna Summer. And those are the three next best tracks after “74”.
It’s ugly and horrible and best forgotten.
Stop reading anything about this album. Okay, deal? I’ll stop writing about it. Right now.