Here we are again – it’s May, it’s Saturday night, and it’s time to sandblast our retinas and eardrums watching the continent-wide celebration of unrestrained kitsch that is the Eurovision Song Contest. Whoopeee. One thought before we start: it would be super, wouldn’t it, if the UK won and we ended up having to host a televised celebration of European pop culture six weeks after we leave the EU next year?* I mean it won’t happen, obviously, because there’s no way in hell we’ll win, but if I was every other country in Europe I’d give the UK douze points all the way simply for the chance to stick two fingers up at the Brexiteers. And then, for good measure, I’d make Jacob Rees-Mogg and Andrea Leadsom put on spandex jumpsuits and host next year’s show.
*IF we leave the EU, which is not a foregone conclusion.
As usual, I am not watching the show live – although it hasn’t finished yet and I have remained spoiler-free – because the therapy bills would probably break me. I’ve recorded it, because I need to be able to pause/fast-forward/scream/go and lie down in a darkened room if it all gets too much. And the one certainty at Eurovision is that at some point in the evening it WILL all get too much.
I am also, as ever, watching completely stone-cold sober, if you don’t count the little bit of white wine in the chicken à la king I made earlier (yes I know it’s supposed to be sherry, I hadn’t got any). I hope you appreciate my bravery.
And no, of course I didn’t watch the semi-finals. Do you think I enjoy pain?
(I’m watching the Eurovision Song Contest. Maybe don’t answer that.)
ANYway. So. Lisbon, because Portugal was last year’s winner. I remember nothing whatsoever of last year’s winning entry. We open with a lot of footage of Lisbon’s (gorgeous) cityscape, which reminds me that I was last there 24 years ago. Apparently a lot of the “big hitters” didn’t make it through to the grand final, which I might have known if I’d watched the semi-finals. Or if I cared.
The disappointingly subdued opening begins with a guy in a black suit playing classical guitar accompanying a lady named Ana Moura singing something called ‘Loucura (Sou du Fado)’. It’s very Portuguese and rather lovely, although her ragged black frock seems to have crept in from the aftermath of a battle scene in ‘Game of Thrones’. It’s… tasteful, which in this context is quite frightening.
Oh, wait, no. Bye bye good taste, now we’re watching a row of military drummers behind a thin screechy lady in a glittery low-cut flesh-coloured gown. Whatever she’s singing – I don’t speak Portuguese – is obviously deeply meaningful to her. She and Ms. Moura end up at the front of the runway in front of the stage, and the crowd goes wild.
Now, we’re informed by Graham Norton, we’re having a flag ceremony, backed by “the world DJ scratching champions”. The wooden grid at the back of the set is apparently supposed to represent shipbuilding, so now you know. Flags of each participating nation are carried around the runway, and we meet the contestants one (group) by one. There are no LED screens on the set, which – according to Mr. Norton – means the staging of some of the numbers is going to be “quite bonkers”. Good, that’s what we’re here for.
There is apparently no clear winner, which might mean we’re all actually going to have to watch the voting. Pray for us all.
So that was the flag ceremony. Now it’s time to meet our hosts. Four young women, all wearing improbably shiny dresses, and all smiling in a way that suggests rubber bands pulled very, very tight.
Voting doesn’t open until after the last song has been performed, and in the UK we can vote by app but not text. Not that I’ll be voting, because I’m two hours behind the rest of Europe.
The majority of tonight’s performances, we are reminded, contain flashing lights and strobe effects. We’d want a refund if they didn’t.
And without further ado, we’re into the songs. Everybody got their paracetamol handy? Good. Let’s begin.
One. Ukraine. Melovin, which sounds like something you’d apply to an open wound, with Under the Ladder.
He begins in what looks like a cross between a coracle and a sarcophagus, lit from within in red, and then the bars open and he’s standing on a platform above the stage looking like an extra from a Twilight film. The song is catchy, generic Europop, and I think he might be about to turn everybody in the front row into vampires.
Oh. Now he’s whipped his jacket off, the platform thing is actually a piano at the top of a staircase, and he’s playing the piano as he sings and the staircase is burning while bolts of flame shoot into the air behind him and interpretive dancers whirl meaningfully as fire rages around them. If the sound system wasn’t obliterating nearly all the lyrics, this might make sense.
Oh, wait. This is Eurovision. Probably not.
Two. Spain. Amaia y Alfred – a real-life couple, apparently, though not for very long – with Tu Canción. A reminder: nothing in the second slot has ever won.
We’re beginning in minor-key drippy piano ballad territory, with the singers moving towards each other from opposite sides of the stage. It’s pretty and sweet and sincere and incredibly dull. It builds to a nicely-sung final chorus with swooping strings in the background, but – sorry, Amaia y Alfred – it still isn’t interesting.
Three. Slovenia. Lea Sirk, singing Hvala, ne!, which apparently means “thanks but no thanks”. Hands up who’s hoping for a blast of Previn, Comden and Green? Just me? Oh well.
Ms. Sirk has (mostly) pink hair, and co-wrote the song herself. It doesn’t appear to have a melody, but never mind. There are dancers in metallic bodices doing vaguely ‘street’ vogueing that might have been au courant in 1994, and Ms. Sirk’s personality is unfortunately drowned out by the hyperactive light-show. At one point she stops the music and tries, not successfully, to get the audience to clap along. That’s the best bit.
Four. Lithuania. leva Zasimauskaitè, with When We’re Old.
Another piano ballad. No gimmicky staging. She’s very young, very pretty – naturally pretty, as opposed to the rather plastic airbrushed-and-blow-dried-into-infinity look that so often passes for pretty at Eurovision – and the song is low-key and rather touching. She has an appealingly throaty voice, and can pull out a hell of a belt when she wants to. I don’t think she’ll win, but it’s an interesting contrast with the brain-shredding schlock you usually expect at Eurovision.
Five. Austria. Cesár Sampson, whose aunt is apparently Pepsi from Pepsi and Shirlie, with Nobody But You.
Jazzy baritone, unfortunate rubber T-shirt and trousers, decent song, and for some reason he’s standing on a platform with lights underneath that looks a bit like the alien spaceship that abducts Fallon in The Colbys. The song has a very strong, very catchy chorus, he can really sing, there’s a gospel choir somewhere offstage, and he throws in a couple of spectacular high notes in the final refrain. It’s a really good performance, though not the kind of mesmerising star turn that won the contest for Austria a few years ago.
Six. Estonia. Elina Nechayeva, singing something called La Forza. Her dress, we are told, cost €65,000. All the clothes I’ve ever bought in my life wouldn’t add up to more than a fraction of that.
She’s a proper singer, and we seem to be in Sarah Brightman crossover territory. Her dress lights up from underneath and then starts showing projections as she sopranos off into the stratosphere. She has a hell of a voice, but the projections-on-a-dress effect has been done before, although it possibly hasn’t been done better. It’s absurdly OTT, she hits her big high note at the end dead-on, and overall it’s a really good performance. Whether the song itself is memorable enough to do well, though, is a different question.
Seven. Norway. Alexander Rybak, who won in 2009, back for more with a song called That’s How You Write A Song.
He mimes playing violin, then drums, then guitar, then starts singing. It’s an upbeat, slightly kitsch, bouncy blast of pop, and he certainly throws himself into it. The song, despite the title, isn’t that great, but he’s a terrific performer. Yes, he plays violin for real in the bridge. The overall effect, though, is of a relentlessly upbeat production number from the kind of musical that opens on Broadway to mediocre reviews, runs seven months, and doesn’t win any Tony awards.
Eight. Portugal. Our hosts. Cláudia Pascoal, singing O Jardim. Her pink hair is way pinker than Lea Sirk’s.
It’s a wispy ballad, she’s singing with her eyes closed, and this is clearly the please-don’t-make-us-pay-to-host-the-show-next-year entry. She has a nice voice, it’s a nice-enough song, and things don’t perk up when the songwriter joins in halfway through.
An interruption from the hosts. If you listened to all the songs ever performed at Eurovision back-to-back, it would take nearly 73 hours. Or you could just watch the show, which won’t take 73 hours but might feel like it. There’s a very forced gay/straight joke buried somewhere within their spiel. Ms. Shiny Dress #4 is wearing a temporary shoulder tattoo saying “the commentators rock”. She gets Ms. Estonia to sing an arpeggio. She really does have a hell of a voice. Ms. Estonia, not Ms. Shiny Dress #4.
Nine. United Kingdom. Us. SuRie, with a song called Storm which I haven’t heard before RIGHT NOW.
Memorable chorus, decent voice, bland lyrics. She still believes in chasing rainbows, apparently. Is this a song about the European Research Group? She’s Terribly Sincere. Imagine a cross between Annie Lennox and Yazz and you’re on the right track.
Oh. There’s a stage invasion – a man in a tracksuit shouting something about Nazis and the UK – and he gets really, scarily close to her. Security guards drag him offstage, and SuRie – impressively – doesn’t miss a beat. Very, VERY cool handling of what must have been a frightening moment. She finishes to huge applause and deserves it. Whether she’ll get to perform again, we don’t know.
Ms. Shiny Dress #4 is talking to the Ukrainian singer via an interpreter. She tells him he looks like a vampire. Yes, we know. He moves into bite her. This is an unscheduled pause, we’re told, while the backstage management figure out what to do about the moment of OMGWTF we’ve just witnessed. For now, we’re going on to the next song.
Ten. Serbia. Sanja Ilic and Balkanika, singing Nova Deca.
Ooh. Wind machine. Beardy man playing a flute/recorder thing. Three women in black and white intoning meaningfully while a big bald bearded man who obviously considers himself a sex god – he isn’t – sings the lead vocal in a surprisingly wimpy voice and someone bangs steel drums rhythmically at the side of the stage. I can’t help wondering whether they’re all members of a death cult – and if they are, is it us or them who is supposed to end up dead? It’s… not very good.
He represented Yugoslavia in 1982, apparently, and came 14th.
Eleven. Germany. Michael Schulte, You Let Me Walk Alone, apparently inspired by the death of his father. We’re told he’s the German Ed Sheeran… presumably if Ed Sheeran had more hair.
And yes, his song is right out of the Ed Sheeran how-to-write-a-sincere-ballad manual. The chorus, though, is basically the verse of Adele’s Someone Like You, only speeded up a bit, so let’s knock off a few points there. His performance is suitably anguished, and a lot of people like this sort of thing more than I do. Which doesn’t necessarily mean they’re right. It builds to a ghastly melodramatic climax as swirling beams of red light go insane behind him. It’s clearly a popular entry, but it’s also completely dreadful.
Twelve. Albania. Eugent Bushpepa, with Mall. The Chinese network objected to Eugent’s tattoos, it seems, so the show – all of it – isn’t being shown there this year. He looks like Jake Gyllenhaal playing Dave Gahan, and – a common Eurovision trope, this – his voice isn’t nearly as tough as his outfit. A wailing rock tenor number that isn’t quite as rock-n-roll as it thinks it is, and it all falls apart when he starts screlting near the end.
Thirteen. France. Madame Monsieur, with Mercy, a song inspired by the refugee crisis.
Monsieur plays guitar, Madame sings. It’s low-key modern political pop, presented without gimmicks, and none the worse for that. If you’re at all familiar with Francophone pop there are no surprises here at all, but it’s a decent song with a strong singalong final section, and she sings it very well indeed.
Fourteen. Czech Republic. Mikolas Josef, Lie To Me (Mr. Norton’s aside: “OK, I think you’re going to win.”)
He’s wearing a bowtie, braces, and glasses, and – why? – a leather backpack, and it’s a very white take on New York hip-hop from circa 1985. Yes, there is breakdancing. Breakdancing dancers in shell suits. It’s – what’s the phrase I’m looking for? – fucking awful. He yells “WASSUP EUROVISION?” towards the end, and the crowd screams, I think more in fear than anything else.
Fifteen. Denmark. Rasmussen, with Higher Ground.
Rasmussen looks a bit like Tilda Swinton, if Tilda Swinton had a big bushy red hipster beard. Beard grooming, unfortunately, might have been a higher priority for Rasmussen than coming up with a decent song. There are four similarly hipster-beardy backing singers, and it’s basically like watching Take That, if Take That hadn’t shaved for two years and had forgotten how to write a chorus. “NOW COME ON, WALK WITH US!”, he yells. No. A wind machine blows fake snow over them as the song lumbers towards what I assume must have been intended as a climax, but unfortunately they don’t get buried in a fake snowdrift.
Sixteen Australia. Yes I know Australia isn’t in Europe, deal with it and move on. Jessica Mauboy, We Got Love.
Jessica is a huge, huge star in Australia. She’s wearing blue tinfoil and chewing up most of her consonants, she sounds like Danni Minogue imitating Natalie Imbruglia, and her song is terrible. She tries to get the crowd to sing along with the chorus, and they don’t. Ouch.
Two of the shiny presenter ladies are back to tell us we’re all having a great time. Especially the stage invader, I’m sure.
The Serbian wannabe-sex-God is telling shiny presenter lady #4 that he’s in love with her. It’s not creepy at all. Then she asks Mr. Rubber Outfit from Austria to lift her up three times in five seconds. He does. There’s a subtext here, and perhaps we don’t want to delve into it too deeply.
Seventeen. Finland, Finland, Finland. The country where I quite want to be. Pony-trekking or camping, or just watching TV… where was I? Not in Finland. Damn. OK. Saara Aalto, Monsters. Hit it, Saara.
Saara has a very elaborate top-knot/plait thing on her head, and eye make-up that goes back to the top of her ears. She sings the first verse while being spun upside-down on a rotating disk. She’s backed by a team of S&M prison guards doing fascistic interpretive dance – the kind of moves that might have been daring in a Eurythmics video in 1982 – and she does have a really good voice. She doesn’t have a really good song, but the staging is weird enough that it might not matter. Yes, of course there are fireworks at the end.
OK. So. SuRie was offered the chance to perform again, and declined, saying that she had nothing to prove. She’s right.
Eighteen. Bulgaria. Equinox, singing Bones.
Four bars in and the screaming starts. One of the singers, I think, not me, but I had to check. It’s another hipster invasion, and another group who might be singing about a death cult. They can all sing, although the song is quite tedious, but I can’t shake the feeling that this, to them, is what passes for an uplifting song. It’s all a bit overwrought, there’s dry ice AND the wind machine, and the screamy lady in the middle ends with a screamy countermelody over the final refrain.
Nineteen. Moldova. DoReDos, My Lucky Day.
The staging involves overexcited people opening doors/windows in a white wall and grimacing/gesturing/shaking their hips, while other overexcited people sing and prance about in front, and sometimes the people in front of the wall swap places with the (identical) people behind it. It’s a slab of cheerfully naff Europop, performed by hyperactive CBeebies presenters dressed up for a night out on the piss at a 1970s theme bar in Wigan. It’s jaw-droppingly bonkers and great fun.
Twenty. Sweden. In the pre-performance clip he’s shown making cheese, which in a sense is what everybody connected to this show has been doing all evening. Benjamin Ingrosso, Dance You Off.
Solo performance in front of a coolly stylish light show consisting of horizontal bars of light. The visuals are better than the song, but it’s got a memorable hook in the chorus and it’s somehow fresher and more up-to-date than most of what we’ve seen this evening even though it also sounds like a Bee Gees offcut from twenty years ago. He doesn’t have a huge voice, but he can sing, he can move, and it’s very watchable. And then it ends, and the lights stop flashing, and you can see his improbably tight/rigid trousers properly for the first time, and it suddenly becomes clear why his voice moved sharply upwards as if he was regressing back towards puberty every time he moved his legs.
Twenty-one. Hungary. A metal group, oh joy. AWS, Vislát Nyár. Brace yourselves.
They are obviously ready to rock. I’m not sure anyone else is. There’s lots of grimacing and attitude, flames start shooting out of the front of the stage, and miraculously none of their improbably floppy fringes get singed. The singer is barefoot, the guitarist does a stage dive, and the drummer should have worn more anti-perspirant. It ends in a scream, which eerily matches what we’ve all been doing internally for the last three minutes.
Twenty-two. Israel. Netta, with a song called Toy.
Netta looks a little bit like Dawn French playing Bjork. She’s fabulously eccentric; she’s standing in front of a table with three panels that light up like a Simon Says game, behind her are two walls of shelves filled with golden toy cats with metronome-like wagging tails, and there are three dancers in black and pink tracksuits doing a Jane Fonda Workout on a bridge off to her left. Netta also has one hell of a voice, and is giving the most original performance we’ve seen all night. The song is also eccentric, and at two points seems to involve Netta making chicken noises – but of all the things we’ve seen so far, this is the one that looks most like a winner.
Twenty-three. Nearly there now. Netherlands. Waylon, who was one of the Common Linnets, who came close to winning in 2014, singing Outlaw in ‘Em.
It’s a passable pastiche of American country-rock. Everybody’s got a little outlaw in ’em, according to the chorus, and I assume whoever designed Waylon’s shiny animal-print coat has been on the run from the law for quite some time. It’s an enjoyable performance, but not the greatest song; his 2014 entry, a rather lovely country song called Calm After the Storm, was far better (and far better, actually, than nearly anything that has been performed at Eurovision since).
Twenty-four. Ireland. Ryan O’Shaughnessy, Together.
Pretty ballad, he hits all the high notes in the chorus, but the staging – which has a boy-meets-boy courtship enacted by two dancers behind Mr. O’Shaughnessy and his pianist – is better than the song. The song is lovely, actually – but the staging is a knockout.
Twenty-five. Cyprus. Eleni Foureira, Fuego. I assume she won’t be singing about a Renault.
She opens the song in a metallic flame-patterned jumpsuit while the lights form what looks like a ten-foot-high vagina behind her, and that’s just about the most memorable thing about it. It’s bog-standard Greek Europop, the sort of thing you hear all summer in every beach bar in every Mediterranean resort east of Brindisi; given the title it’s inevitable that the staging will involve flames, and it does. We’re told this is the bookies’ favourite, and I – seriously – can’t imagine why.
Twenty-six. Italy. The last number. Ermal Meta e Fabrizio Moro, Non mi avete fatto niente
It’s apparently about overcoming your fear of being a victim of terrorism. It’s very well-meaning, they’ve both got good voices, and it needs a little bit more urgency. A tasteful, low-key performance, and not a bad song, but it’s not going to win.
So that’s all the songs. There’ll be a recap before the voting lines open, except I’m two hours behind so voting has already closed (no I don’t know who won, I am still spoiler-free). The four shiny presenter ladies have changed into new, even shinier frocks, and it’s time to take a loo break.
Two of the shiny presenter ladies are shouting HAVE YOU VOTED? over and over again. No I haven’t, please don’t hurt me.
Now we’re being invited to get a bit mellow and get into Lisbon’s groove. It’s the interval act. It is indeed mellow. The singer who opens the sequence is terrific; I’m sure the guy rapping in Portuguese is too, but I’ve no idea what any of it means. The music is a rather charming intersection of Europe, Africa and Brazil; it’s all rather subdued and tinged with melancholy around the edges, and it makes a rather nice change from the Debbie Allen Dance Number knockoffs you often get in the interval act.
Now two of the shiny presenter ladies are handed a phone by a naked man whose dangly bits are conveniently hidden by the onscreen graphics. One of them tells him he’d better leave before the graphics get taken off. Oh, how we laughed.
Now we’re getting a quick tour through some of the 53 songs Portugal entered in Eurovision before they finally won. It’s grim. People who aren’t funny trying to be funny in front of a TV audience of 200 million. Moving swiftly on…
…to the Junior Eurovision winner. Polina Bogusevich, a Russian 14-year-old with one hell of a voice. We see a clip of her winning song, and it’s completely batshit insane. She sings a couple of lines a capella, and she is so very pleased to be here on this amazing stage. That’s nice.
Now we get last year’s winner performing his new single. Like many things this evening, I’m sure it’s terribly meaningful if you speak Portuguese, but the closest I can get is GCSE Spanish, which I took almost thirty years ago. Fast forward time.
Another recap of the 26 songs in tonight’s contest before the voting lines close. Fast forward time again.
First, the jury votes, which are based on the dress rehearsal performance last night. I’ll be fast forwarding a lot… again.
A dozen countries in and the UK has nul points. I’m (cough) shocked, and it has nothing to do with the performance or the song.
(I mean, really, what did we expect? Our leaders, most of our newspapers, and a chunk of the public have all spent the past couple of years metaphorically sticking two fingers up at Europe, and what goes around comes around. Especially at Eurovision, which is a grudge match as much as it’s a song contest.)
Mel Giedroyc announces the points from the UK jury. Mel is in Uxbridge, which is currently represented in the House of Commons by Boris Johnson. Sorry, Mel, but we all have our crosses to bear. We’ve given 8 to Bulgaria – perhaps the screamy lady frightened the judges – and 10 to Israel, with douze points going to Mr. Rubber Pants from Austria. Bye Mel, you can get the hell out of Uxbridge now. Quickly, before Boris farts in your general direction.
Halfway through the Jury votes, Norway’s points are being awarded by a man in a shiny red jacket and Darth Vader. Israel and Austria are tied in the lead, with Cyprus third and Germany fourth.
Three-quarters of the way through, Austria is in the lead, Israel is second, Sweden is third. The UK is third from the bottom.
The last jury to award votes is Portugal. Portugal’s twelve points go to Estonia, who are a third of the way down the board; Austria is first, Sweden is second, Israel is third, the UK is fourth from the bottom.
As a result of the public vote, though, everything can change. And often does. Mr. Rubber Pants is really, really touched, he says. Not through those pants, he isn’t.
And before the public vote is revealed, a quick word from Eurovision’s executive something-or-other, I stopped listening and so did everybody else. Blah blah blah, platitude platitude platitude, shut the fuck up already and let’s get to the end of this shitfest.
So… the public vote. Did the public agree with the jury? Probably not, that’d be boring.
Australia got just nine points from the public vote. That’s eleven more than they deserved. The UK got 25, which gives us a total of 48, which means we won’t be coming last. Phew.
(Like I care.)
Two-thirds of the way through the public vote, Austria and Sweden are both out of the running to win even though they were first and second in the jury vote, and the potential winners are Israel, Germany, or Cyprus. I can’t remember Cyprus’s entry and it’s less than an hour since I saw it.
And the public vote boots Denmark from near the bottom of the board to near the top, and kicks Mr. Rubber Pants into third place. Netta wins for Israel, Cyprus is second, and it’s all very exciting. Portugal finished last, so their plan worked. We’re third from the bottom, and – again – I can’t possibly imagine what 52% of the electorate, a gaggle of our politicians, and a big chunk of our media might have done to so piss off both the juries and the public voters right across Europe.
Netta is clearly overjoyed and overcome. The trophy – a cut-glass microphone on a plastic stand – is staggeringly hideous, the waving golden cats are wheeled out again, and Netta gives us a reprise as the show’s grand finale.
So… next year in Tel Aviv, presumably. While you’re waiting, here’s Netta: