Future Prophecy – Body Shaker (BNE)

Posted in Reviews 2006 by - May 30, 2006



I love this. Don’t get me wrong: it’s shit. Pure, unmitigated shit without so much as a sliver of a suggestion of a saving grace. I love it because it’s got rapping and singing in it. Steady on: let me finish. The rapping is dreadful, though not quite down to the toilet-scraping sounds of “MC” Ja-Natan, and the singing…well, it’s singing. It’s almost unintelligible, and perhaps because of this BNE have opted to – get this, ladies and gentlemen – they have opted to print the lyrics inside the CD booklet.

Okay! So we can all sing along, alright? Track one: “Money maker, rub shaker, hard breaker, chance taker / Mad player, ha, I am say ya, it not a fake ha, it’s play ha hay daa.” Quite. Rock The Show has some dreadful stadium rock singing: “we gonna rock the show, bang your hands and let it go,” as Future Prophecy proceed to fail completely to rock any kind of show, unless it was a show of craprock music put on for the retards, by the retards.

(Slow cut scene to above the reviewer’s head, panning slowly out, as he realises that “craprock music put on for the retards, by the retards” is the finest description of this scene that has ever, or will ever, be written.) November Rain is proud winner of this week’s Worst Piece Of Music Ever Recorded, a title it will hold with pride until I make the mistake of reviewing the next whatever release from whatever big label. We are punished by the vocals of Some Chick before the painful guitarwork of Some Cunt, and eventually a chap comes out rapping: “hit me cause I got hair on my chin,” and we form an orderly queue.

Unisex has one lyric: “Please get on the dancefloor.” Evidently Future Prophecy feel they are unable to make everybody get on the dancefloor by use of music alone, which I must confess I thought was the idea with dance music. Nor is there an instructional: “Hey! Get on the dancefloor!” which I vaguely recall being used to great effect by Technotronic in 1990. Instead they opt for a desperate, flailing “please” as they notice the collective partygoing zeitgeist grumpily collecting its coat and heading out to the carpark for unprotected sex with bikers.

Keep On Rocking takes the melody from Coldplay’s Clocks, already the sperm in a million eurotrance testicles, makes it beg for mercy and creates yet another resolutely spare and squarely offensive piece of spleenjuice. Truly awful: seriously, did these guys think even for half an hour that “hey we’re onto something here! I think we should continue with this and make a great record!” I mean honestly. It’s utterly terrible, flaccid music that would offend your baby sister and ponytailed MTV executives alike.

Syncopa: “baby want you to keep your hands on you / you’re getting too close to me / I’ve been feeling my heart go’s to nothing awaaaaaaay.” I would wear Michelle Adamson like a musical feedbag right now. Body Shaker sounds like the music at the end of a bad Playstation game, while the lyrics lie “it’s a beautiful sound, dancing to the ground / the computer let the sound, dancing to the ground.”

Finally there’s Rashid with mostly foreign lyrics save for a wonderfully crap piece of rapping which includes the following: “Just free style straight up the men thought / because it read the shit it just get better” … “I just from Hollywood makes you know that we good” … “because I’m just Rashid I give you what you need / Rip me nigger up and the break in the next bit” … “time to flow I go and let him know how running this show / check it out because we are in the house yo.” This isn’t so much shit as unfathomable.


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