Brazenly unconvincing love-lost flummery by the same people who wrote the previous Number One. Baldry, wearing his serious bluesman’s hat, later professed to hate the record but listening to it I don’t believe him for a second: this sounds like it was a huge amount of fun to make, and it’s reasonably fun to listen to, too. Baldry chews up every word – if he thought he was going to get another hit, or even another go in the recording studio, you couldn’t tell it from this – and he reaches a peak of endearing hamminess in the half-spoken final chorus. He’s backed by all the fuss and pomp of contemporary production trappings: what the Beatles and Engelbert – opposing bosses of ’67 pop – had in common was a maximalist approach to arrangements, and every canny hitmaker seemed to follow suit.
Score: 5
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