Review Summary: Nadir
Elton John's Victim of Love
is, among other things: a nadir
, a parasite festering on the entrails of a musical movement that had long previously pulled the plug on its own life support machine, a cocaine-driven misfire recorded in a 12-hour-long binge of excess and poor decisions, an additional tarnish to the already(-deservedly?)-sullied name of Chuck Berry (among other, more respectable individuals), an impotent work of incompetence that makes other Elton delicacies like "Don't Trust That Woman" seem like high art, filled to the brim with a vomit-inducing uniformity in content and production that evokes "1984" and whatever the hell those ***ty droid things were from The Phantom Menace
. It is also, to name a few more things: drab, dull, rancid, uninteresting, sterile, flaccid, tired, lacking, insulting, stupid, soulless, soul-sucking, and the worst thing to be associated with the respective names of Elton John, Pete Bellotte, disco, pop music, the presidency of Jimmy Carter, and perhaps humanity's very existence.
I'll bet you were expecting me to follow up that whole rant with something to the effect of, "But what Victim of Love
*isn't* is…", succeeded by some witty attempt at a joke to conclude this clear piss-take of a review. Nah fam, I'm not satisfying your desires. Not this time.