Auch im weiteren Verlauf der Platte bleiben die Songs höchst ohrwurmig. Exemplarisch sei noch "Police" genannt, bei dem sich Baxter Dury eher dem minimalistischen Pop von Casiotone For The Painfully Alone annähert.
“Pleasure”, the record's preceding cut, is all wonky disco squelches, acid pads and the kind of synth lead/drum machine you get on GCSE music keyboards. He continues his pretty spectacular knack for silver-penned mischief: “Ferrero Rocher prostitutes/Primark debutantes in boots...” he croons, almost upliftingly so. There's an inkling that his dour facade is melting. “Palm Trees” is gently funky with French Riviera calm and the languid shuffle of hotel bar drums. “Lips” is yard sale faux-808s and West Side Story fingersnaps. The guitar is all noodly hooks and vocal melody counterpoints – vocal melodies that ooze contentment. It's largely unfamiliar territory for us as listeners when it comes to Dury.
Described by its leading blurb as “one man’s wry take on the battle with existence. It's metaphysics meets morose disco...” you'd likely expect some gallows-humour/existential spiel. Maybe that's not far off, to some extent. By the time you've bathed in the blissed-out blanched linens of “White Men” or the rolling snarl of “Lips”, any notions of pouty tantrums will be banished. Dury's not exactly ecstatic about much, but his newfound nonchalant devil-may-care attitude is refreshing, and it's good see that the past few years away have seen him evolve.
The weird thing is, though he sounds, on the whole, a lot chirpier, his lyrics betray that almost instantly. It's as if he's grown into, and relishing, his role as the great beleaguered beacon – he's given up on fighting against his own darn rotten luck, and is just quietly accepting of his place in life. It's a kind of 'sod it all, may as well grab a beer and watch the carnage'.
(The Line Of Best Fit)
It’s been three years since Dury’s debut ‘Happy Soup’. What made it such a charming record was his knack for wrapping kitchen-sink dramas in candyfloss, but that trait sparkles only intermittently on ‘It's A Pleasure’. Standout single 'Palm Trees' proves Baxter's eye for a slick electro-pop groove is as sharp as his father Ian’s was for a filthy couplet. On 'Other Men's Girls' his leery hunt for "another canvas to paint my dreams across" is spliced with glitzy, chattering keys and bobbing baselines, but his deadpan delivery is clumsy. These confessionals swing from simple and swooning to uncomfortably sleazy, but male inadequacy is always at the root of his woes. It’s a shame the saccharine musical backing too often makes it hard to empathise.