Throughout the compulsive viewing experience that has been Pop Idol, contestants have faced the wrath and character assassination of a certain smug judge, Simon Cowell. 'We're looking for the 'x' factor', he deadpans on a weekly basis, as he witnesses his next victim crumble before him. What a ****!
Translate this scenario to the recording session of Westlife's 'World Of Our Own', with Cowell in his role of executive producer. God knows what he said to them but you can imagine something along the lines of 'that was bland', 'your performance is completely lifeless' and the unforgettable 'I'm surprised you got this far' as they tremble in the corner. Whatever the methods, the harsh treatment seems to have worked. Like Britney before them, this is Westlife's most accomplished album to date. Granted, considering their two previous albums, such an achievement wasn't hard but it's an improvement all round - less fillers, more individuality in the vocals and better songs.
Industrious songwriters have been busy distilling the classic ballad formula to even greater effect (the first No.1 'Queen Of My Heart' and the Wham-a-like 'I Cry'') and the appearance of five ballads in quick succession sets out the band's stall. That all these are valid chart toppers is beside the point, but three albums in, fans are surely entitled to more.
Since the charity single 'Uptown Girl' (cheekily included here) saw the boys unglue themselves from their stools for the first time, the world's been itching for the 'Life to, well, come to life. It's cruel to confine five young, virile males to an endless conveyor belt of weepy ballads. When the tempo is upped beyond pedestrian the album bursts into life. Thank god for that.
'World Of Our Own' instantly becomes their best song to date and sees the group enter previously uncharted water; the contagious 'Bop Bop Baby' (co-written by Bryan and Shane) steams into Ronan Keating territory and, to a lesser extent, the slightly tacky Backstreet Boys sounding 'When You're Looking Like That' at least makes you sit up and listen rather than nod off.
Nineteen tracks will stretch the patience of even the most devoted of fans but Mr. Cowell must surely be smiling.
