Westlife’s paparazzi primadonna acts are more interesting than their music. After listening to their penicillin follow-up to their inexplicably successful debut, I am hard-pressed to think of what allure these five Air-Supply/Chicago wannabes have on everyone. Unless the Japanese are buying this album by the truckloads for their karaoke sessions.
All the songs here are nondescript, mawkish ballads with the odd mid-tempo song thrown in. Only I Lay My Love on You and the otherwise mediocre Loneliness Knows Me by Name are worth a second listen, as everything else is karaoke pap that got played only in nursing homes to make the old codgers sleep.
Gosh, guys, 18 tracks of antiseptic blandness. Being nondescript and personality-free can’t get any uglier than this.
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