Origo by Joci Pápai
Look, I’ll be honest with you. I’ve been to Budapest and I liked it. It’s cheap as chips, they do really nice cakes, and there’s the hope of bumping into Andras Kallay-Saunders at any turn. Like Lisbon I’d love to go there for Eurovision, so much that it almost doesn’t matter what they win with. Apart from Boggie, maybe, she was rubbish. This is far from being rubbish, and Juicy Papi is already a winner in my eyes. I so wanted this to win A Dal, the Hungarian national final, that I even eschewed my lusting support for Mr Kallay-Saunders (what has he done to his hair?) to get behind Juicy Papi. This is the kind of music that I love, and Juicy Papi’s self-penned ditty has certainly got my juices flowing. With sumptuous Romani sounds this just oozes exotic excitement, with the added bonus of some rap I can’t understand but am pleasantly disposed to as Juciy Papi pumps it out.
I’m drawn to discover what the lyrics mean, and I’m quite startled. The singing bits tell a tale of wronged love, but it’s the rap that’s quite peculiar. Juicy Papi tells us all of his God-given weapon that he practices with regularly, more diligent than a Samurai. It’s his most precious treasure. Through it he makes great crowds soak, leaving him with scars on his back and tears of thousands running down his guitar. I’m wondering whether there’s something getting lost in translation, but I’ve run it through Google and I’m still enthralled by the possibilities. I’ll have to get to the front of the Golden Circle when he’s performing and see if he can give me a good drenching and bring a tear to my eye. In the meantime, I’ll happily lose myself in the joy of Juicy’s gorgeous song.
My marks – douze points!