17 August 1968
No one gets murdered in the ‘Help Yourself’ universe, which already makes it an improvement on ‘Delilah’ and ‘Green, Green Grass Of Home’. So, how goes Tom Jones, cabaret pop’s most prolific killer, when he contains his chart-topping bloodlust to focus on mere lust?
‘Help Yourself’ isn’t as brash as I had remembered; its swinging orchestra and whimsical verses are more the avuncular Bavarian schlagerhaus than a louche Vegas cocktail lounge. It’s hard to hate totally on this when you have the gleeful lasciviousness Tom injects into the word “lips” here. Still, it’s meagre fare with neither the kitsch nor the charm to overcome its inherent naffness. Send help.
