The lyrics to “Rock Me Amadeus” cast Wolfgang M as casanova and punker, not that 95% of its English-speaking audience cared. We just got off on the bug-eyed spit-shower of consonants and the sudden detours into cod-Wagnerian backing vox. Almost everything about the record is staccato – the jittering drums, Falco’s jumpy gutturals, the layers of jabbing keyboards behind him.
It was a post-film cash-in, though only in the loosest sense: Peter Schaffer’s florid examination of genius and jealousy simply gave Falco the excuse to raid the costume box and party. Just as well – any attempted weightiness would have distracted from “Rock Me Amadeus” colossal likeability: its easy, addictive silliness that casts some of this year’s attempts at comedy in an even worse light.