The Eurovision 2018 Review: Day 09

Been racking my brains. Trying to work out where I’ve heard bits off this one before. Still think it’s a mixture of Sam Brown’s Stop and Dee C Lee’s See the Day but I could be persuaded otherwise.

As I tippy-tap-type these words, there are muffled warnings of Crazy being in hot water as the same tune had different lyrics and vocal laid over it not that long ago by an artist who definitely isn’t Franka, Joan or otherwise.

For the purposes of not being all that crazy,  we’ll stick to this one for now.

Plaudits and a hamper should be given to any director who makes a promo video go from a Leonor advert to The Hunger Games in one cut – and it’s a juxtaposition that’s very telling about the song it supports.

Crazy is like one of those people you see dragged along to the work’s Christmas do. Everyone, absolutely everyone, just wants to belt their lungs out to Mariah Carey after too much Southern Comfort but there is always that one who remains resolute to only be seen appreciating serious music. Never leaves their seat. Judgemental grunt on their face which will require chisels wielded by artisan craftspeople to remove.

Well, that’s what Crazy is a bit like. You could imagine Franka being offered loads of perky Balkan pop, perhaps even a smattering of turbo folk, in demo form while deciding on the song to take to a Lisbon. For every one which could conceivably lead to a slut drop  90 seconds in, there goes the grunt. Which brought us to this, the official Croatian entry for Eurovision 2018.

There’s nothing especially wrong about Crazy. It’s just that two-thirds of it is done in a style which tales itself so seriously, anyone creeping into shot with a sign telling a joke about boobs would have bouquets showered upon them from every direction.

For pity’s sake, Franka, you’re doing Eurovision. Have a bit of fun with it. Anyone who takes a po-faced approach to this game is soon sent packing to t’other end of the scoreboard (we’re looking at you, Skeletons). It doesn’t help when the title of the song suggests a bit of a party either.

Although this is a tad dull and doesn’t shift along the tempo bus too much, there is one saving grace to Crazy that makes a fitting end to this review.

A moment, please, for Franka’s spoken word section.

Somehow, it begins at Rodeo Drive and ends somewhere near the art block at Roedean. An accent covering 5,400 miles in one sentence hasn’t been heard since Michelle Fowler’s daughter Vicki turned up in Albert Square a few years back with her own brand of Bronxney.

But Franka also mentions Bonnie and Clyde and the whole concept is a little bit ridiculous, so this bit, the speaky bit, that’s firmly in the marvellous box.

Phewee, felt like the Christmas do misery-keks for a bit back there.

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