Friday, 23 October 2009

Tag-Team MILFs Volume 3 - Bananarama Have Their Knockers

Take this post with a pinch of blooming salt - I love the girls and it's all intended as irreverent (Venus, Justice, Preacher are all classics). I will gladly post all comments, but before any, if at all, appear I have noticed a Twitter attack from an unhappy fan. Bananarama have made my best singles lists and I wouldn't get too upset over making casual/predictable/contrived/boring jokes if my reaction to their recent music isn't favourable. This is all I shall say on the matter. There really is no intended readership for this blog and by no means does it even have a far-reaching audience, so the reviews are written in the spur of the moment and completely harmless. Have some perspective and everyone can get on fine - I have met Sarah and Karen back in 2005 and even made a joke about their boobs falling out during a concert, those women 'get it' and I'd have no qualms about them reading my blog calling them cougars with average vocals or accusing them of trannylicious airbrushing addiction.

Bananarama have taken a few knocks over the years and still haven't learned their lesson from 2005s patchy Drama outing, so if help is at hand from a record company exec being a huge fan, who are the nana's to turn down the chance to record some second-rate over-inflated Hi-NRG HRT 'anthems'? Viva was released in the UK and flopped harder than Dannii's sling snapping via Kylie's front teeth to the ground.

On first base, Love Comes blows more than hot air, its transcending hook being the imaginative sounds of 'whooah, wooah' which highlights their out-of-breath appetite for bilingual male escorts.

Above: fuck a tranny, anyone?

The theatrical Love Don't Live Here Anymore is a haughty and decently engaging rollercoaster of one night stand decision making. The closest they will come to releasing a second single from this still-born project. Only the finest remixers of the Almighty/Bimbo Jones calibre can ressucitate much of the dead weight from here on in.

Above: how many Peurto Rican proms do you go to?

With vocals more septic than Dannii injecting Cheryl with some 'home recipe' botox, their woefully useless cover of iiO's Rapture dillutes the originals deadpan glamour, creating one big muffled 3 minute throb with passionate vocoder sounds. 2009 this ain't.

Below: pulling out all the strops, the classic chair-crotch reveal works every time.
Seventeen is their new age limit, as any older would simply know better than to go near these abnoxiously depraved MILFs. This is music for women who 'just love gays' and want to believe bingo-flapping dance music is where it's at, and any gay surrendering all dignity for this dirge might want to re-think ingratiating themselves to Sara and Karen's brand of jaded camp. The pining chorus 'make me feel like I was 17' is limper than being slapped in the face by a flaccid big black dick - when I was 17 I was throwing up all my meals and counting my ribs, which seems orgasmic compared to this soggy tampon of a track. 'Don't stop it' they yearn for no apparant reason - are they getting fisted whilst in a coma?

Gameboy-arabic stylings graffiti one's ears on Twisting, yet more 'no control' giddiness is explained as if we are asking, but they would have more life in them if Cheryl was clubbing some sense out of them at her KKK-anonymous meetings.

Below: Karen looking all kinds of Angelica Houston fabulous.
Their rueful dancefloor don't-think-about-getting-pregnant sense of thigh-clenching danger continues on Tell Me Tomorrow - getting drunk in your 40s and going on masochistic crusades for cock on a worknight does seem fun, but less so when sounding more defenceless than Dannii on her webcam without any make-up.

Below: with faces like the morning after pill, they don't half scrub up well for a couple of middle-aged scrubbers.
The atmospheric throbbing cover of The Runner is an improvement, with bridges motoring the melodic swerving of a classic ABBA narrative of jealousy and misanthropic caution.

The orifice-squeezing seeping sleaze of Extraordinary is a blistering tornado of been-around-the-showers pathos. Just when one is giving up hope, they pull this one out like a forgotten tampon, and suddenly there's room for one more.

Dum Dum Boy sees the ladies hitting their mid-life crisis stride, and could not mean more business unless yanking down their tights whilst at a young offenders boot camp. Stodgy electro pumps solidly at both ends like ever-ready Wu Tang Klan members with a backstage pass.

Below: striking a trannylicious pose at the bar worked wonders in their 30s, but can they still get lucky without date-raping their nephews?
The typsy S-S-S-Single Bed threatens some poor sod with an optionless sleeping arrangement - these girls are so close they share everything. 'Baby don't cry' says it all, those tag-team MILFs just can't help it.

Above: neither was willing to fess up on who farted this rubbish.

We've Got Tonight is a severe famine of ideas and occupation beyond anything than lubricating the same old hole and expecting the magic to happen regardless of inspiration.

Above: I would be embarassed too.

With all the suspense of taking the same pregnancy test 11 times over, there is more than a lingering stench alluding to the same outcome of joyless trampy trance music despite keeping just about everything apart from their legs crossed in hope that magic just might happen. It doesn't.

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