This is the third song this year that asks us to stay. Never was there a promise of more woe.
Seriously, and with the risk of sounding all grumpy and more vicious than the Blair Witch, this year’s entry from Spain is nothing less than head spam. It sounds a bit like Celine Dion decided to marry Julio Iglesias the former and tell us about all the pain and self tanning misery that put her through. Except that would maybe, and just maybe, be less boring.
But maybe also it’s just us being terribly picky and demanding and Spain being totally right about Europe loving female singers that have had so many botox injections they aren’t able to move a muscle in their face (it’s still a mystery how she’s able to sing). Maybe everyone else totally digg a ballad with a complete lack of character, an utterly forgettable melody and a supporting band that sounds like something that would come out of your Hammond organ just by the press of a button. And it may just so happen that the oh so many millions of people around the globe that watch television on the 26th of May do it for the sake of seeing the music from their daily elevators and shopping malls performed live.
Or maybe not. There’s nothing wrong with Pastora Soler’s voice. But she is more forgettable than the blonde, young girl who sang Yesterday at your high school graduation (mind you nothing wrong with her voice either, but do you really remember her?). She’s one of those Milfs who wishes she was a star while the best she can hope for is that her song will be played during a sad, heartbreaking sequence of Spanish day time tv.
No one should expect a Spanish inquisition this year, many should expect a beloved opportunity to pee and continue with their heresy. For that we will be grateful to Pastora Soler sometime in the near future. For everything else, we won’t.