THERE is a dull throb at the back of my head.
It's the John Barrowman album.
Being allergic to interpretation records which bridge the gap between showbiz and pop and largely unaware of Barrowman's exploits beyond the excellent though fading Torchwood series, I shuddered upon receiving this...complete with its unappetizing cover and numbingly unadventurous choice of material.
Once I would fall in love to Carly Simon's venomous You're So Vain and the sheer unadulterated pop genius of Time After Time, be it by Cindy Lauper or Miles Davies.
No such emotion here, now, with this well sung, tediously straight collection of songs. No golden memories are stirred as Barrowman's voice towers above If You Leave Me Now, Your Song, All By Myself and All Out of Love.
Where, once lingered traces of sex, passion, deceit and regret, now we find it all softened by the sheen of over-production.
All soft lights and studio hiss, the singer's own apparently powerful sexuality diminishing with every chord.
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