 |
Universal | iTunes.com |
· · ·
I’m so proud of my beautiful boy Salvador Sobral.
With a dream in his heart, a spring in his step, his dad’s huge ratty old blazer on his shoulders and a fabulous scruffly bun in his hair, he brought it home for Portugal, earning the country’s first ever win in Eurovision history.
Frankly, I had lost hope, folks.
I really thought Italy was going to take home the gold (as did the bookies until like the Saturday night) and that we’d be jetsetting off to Rome or Florence or Venice or some anonymously beautiful Mediterranean city.
What a very good song that was, performed by a very attractive Italian man with a very hairy gorilla and a very good dance.
But I had forgotten to dream.
And now, here we are in Lisbon, a completely different beautiful Mediterranean city.
Dreams really do come true.
And not just for me and Salvador, but for everyone who wants nothing more than to sing their guts out in front of tens of millions of screaming fans ready to love you so right, and then be harshly, quantifiably, numerically adjudicated upon by those same tens of millions.
Welcome to the Eurovision Song Contest, 2018.
Fasten your seatbelts, folks, it’s all aboard the witty observation train, first stop your eyeballs.
As per a time-honoured tradition, Lisbon features multiple songs riding on the coattails of the previous winner. There is a greater preponderance of artists performing in their native language, running the gamut from the very good — Slovenia’s trap slapper had me doing some seated shimmying in my very comfortable chair, being careful not to overshimmy and spill my coffee of course — to those of mixed goodness — the occult Greek entry works better on the album as an abstract diegetic concept. Putting a human face to the song for the live performance reduced its impact, reminding me that there was in fact a person intoning those words and not some mystical mountain-dwelling nymph.
A number of contestants chose to honour Salvador’s decisive and handsome victory in a different way, dialling it down from eleven to like a six to send softer, more understated ballads to Lisbon. There was Lithuania’s standout diaphanous ASMR number, the sweet Spanish duet (“[I feel like I’m dancing for the first time]” — awww), and that lovely gentle Irish canticle with those two lovely boys dancing together. Even within a community as diverse and welcoming as Eurovision, it’s still so affirming to see some overt queer representation onstage.
This isn’t to say that the setlist is nothing but copycats. Fear not, lovers of power balladry, for your thirst shall be summarily slaked by frosty stomping Danish Vikings, and by more classic bemasked and begowned Romanians. That said, the winning entry isn’t the only point of inspiration this year. Italy looked backwards and decided to do the same thing again but worse, while the Czech Republic has put a fresh spin on Moldova’s bridal banger with a geek-chic number novelly staged like a live music video. The first documented use of a backpack as a prop at Eurovision? Possibly! I didn't check!
Clearly the cash saved by not mounting vast expanses of plasma-screen television has been channelled into the most complex physical staging of any Eurovision I’ve ever witnessed. Sweden’s slinky disco number makes stylish use of flashing light rigs, Moldova has staged a delightful vaudevillian farce (played very straight — I wish it could have been a little more subversive. Maybe one of the throuple could have given up and gotten fresh with their own double?), Azerbaijan carted in their own deconstructed Sydney Opera House from atop which to belt, and of course Estonia’s magnificent gown illuminates an already radiant performance from Elina Nechayeva. Her verses are a little dusty, but those beautiful clarion-call chorus notes are crystal-clear. She really brings the sparkle with her stage presence, a must for both a static figure and an operatic number, so double pressure to succeed there. She has my vote at least. I predict a top ten finish.
I would also have pegged Belgium’s sexy, sultry Bond theme to rank pretty high, and I was surprised that it didn’t get through the semis. Less surprising was that hot mess of reggae-pop from Macedonia, which acquits itself much better on the album when divested of those weird blazers. But more surprising again was that other hot mess from Finland, which wouldn’t have sounded out of place five or six years ago. And poor Franka from Croatia, who sold the hell out of a song that was just too small for her magnetic performance to capture.
Hot take: Bulgaria’s goth Gaga supergroup didn’t really do it for me. Three minutes is not enough time to sufficiently spotlight five different singers — Eurovision acts work best with a maximum of two focal points: lead vocals, and whatever is happening behind them. There could be backup dancing and singing, there could be some fancy topical projection, there could be some fancy very non-topical projection, or acrobatics or calisthenics or other fun Scrabbletastic words. Just so long as you can zip back and forth between the two. Belarus drew the short straw this year, volunteering to be the entry with the dancer who completely eclipses their singer. Hey what was up with those rose-related shenanigans? They were growing from his back? And so she shot one at him with a bow? Is this the visual equivalent of smelling burnt toast?
Speaking of senses, I smell an inaugural victory for Cyprus dawning on the horizon. Eleni Foureira sambaed nimbly around the many Eurovision pitfalls by keeping it nice and simple. Her song matches a very du jour tropical beat to some solid synchronised dancework reminiscent of early Beyoncé, the backup crew smartly slicking back high ponytails to complement Eleni’s flippy leonine mane.
Israel was the hot favourite since the betting sites opened up shop, and it’s not hard to see why. Netta’s raw charisma is a rare treat to witness at Eurovision. She commits to bucking and cawing and squawking without even an inkling of embarrassment, over a featherlight rhythm towards an irresistibly succinct chorus (“I’m not your toy / You stupid boy”). And man does she bring the crazy eyes in the best possible way.
Stupidity notwithstanding, the smart money still says we’ll be making quite a short hop to Nicosia for next year. Though, if you ask me, which, considering you’re reading my blog you probs would, our very own Jessica Mauboy is in with a chance. What an extraordinary stage presence she has! And man, do the crowds love us over across the Pacific and across the Atlantic. Another guaranteed top ten position right there, and she’s already made us proud. Well done, Jess.
What else is happening in Lisbon this year? Hungary has obliged us with some good old-fashioned screamo emo teens, Poland played it safe with some dorky dad dancing, and that heterochromatic Ukrainian set the Atlantic aflame with his very nice coat and also his burning piano. Norway has sent Alexander Rybak and his infectious smile for a second crack, and oh is that boy is having fun. Those funky dance numbers (see Belgium 2016, Malta 2012, UK 2008, etc) can be really hit and miss, and this is a definite hit. The Netherlands has sent half the duo who took silver in Copenhagen with a garish leopard-print barnstormer, though I’m not crazy about the visual of a country song choosing four black guys as support, and the UK has sent Annie Lennox by way of Katy Perry, and I kinda don’t hate it.
As we set sail for the most westerly Eurovision yet, let us take a moment to consider the sunset that must end even the brightest of days. And let us further consider all the colours cast upon the oceans only as the evening draws closer: luminous pinks and strange new indigos, impetuous yellows and impatient greens and serene blues all appearing unbidden and unrequited as yet another day sinks beneath the water. And let us also consider that as you travel further and further left during those few magical moments, they can last longer and longer. You can chase the sun behind the Earth, if you’re quick enough.
(Gosh, I really hope that tied together my scattershot thoughts with some sense of gravitas and cohesion, like Jeff’s speech in that episode of Community that was a clip show of clips we’d never been shown.)
(Trivia Corner! Lisbon usurped its unuseful superlative from Millstreet, Ireland. Other compasspoint extremes: the northiest was that frosty year in Oslo, Norway; the eastiest fanned euphoric flames in Baku, Azerbaijan; and the southmost was all the way down in the heart of the heretofore premised land, Jerusalem, Israel, where we might be going next year but probably not.)
Okay, that’s all. Cheerio, and obrigado.