Livvy Doll, NME

Snarky Julie Burchill lets the cat's claws out, with some great one-liners, if not great foresight. Burchill's predicted storied movie career for Olivia was not to be, where her next solo album Physical was a huge success.

• "Sex power that clean and photogenic"
• "This album is her umpteenth in a long line of voids"
• "Singles bar folk music, not for the Grease'ers, those bright infants, but for sad batchelors and their Miss Adequates"
• and the coup de grace "Film is the word, is the word, is her world"

Don't give up the day job to become a seer, Ms B. One word for you - Physical ;)

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OLIVIA NEWTON-JOHN Totally Hot (EMI)

Olivia, the minx, could sell a Measure Your Own I.Q. bookette to Vanessa Redgrave, and without effort semi-selis me on every damned detached gesture she does. I just refer (sentimental fool) to the money she gave the dolphins and - high nooning it onto rockanroll myth-image territory - I see that poster-moment in the last reel of Grease when she shifted out of that leather jacket. That's an electronicGodzillasnap alongside Iggy Pop walking on hands, or John Travolta likes jailbait.

Sex-power that clean and photogenic deserves some measure of drooled excuse for subsequent-standard product; still, I say that Olivia is a greedy girl to continue putting out soppy, uninteresting records when she could be cleaning up (and I don't mean finding bras and lolly-sticks in the aisles) at any cinema in the civilised world.

You are a film star and a fine actress, Olivia, no matter what the old man critics say. They say you were wet and drippy in Grease; they seem to have overlooked the fact that you were playing a wet and drippy caricature girl. How did they expect a cheerleader to act - smoking a cheroot and cutting balls off with her tongue? What's their idea of a good actress? Old Diane Keaton, who plays wet and drippy meant-to-be-realistic people? You are Nik Cohn's brash blonde Hollywood and Diane Keaton is a critic's meaningful art-film, and we all know which one of you becomes a counter-culture and playground icon.

But I advised Olivia some months ago to never utter an octave without John again. Singing with him, or getting her skintight image on dreamuloid, she's the only girl in the world to the next generation (I read the pop dailies, and all the eight-year-olds want to be her now instead of a nurse). Singing alone, Olivia is immediately, horribly no matter how much black she puts around her eyes and body that nice girl who used to share a lemonade with The Shadows. I wince when I hear my parents refer to your past, Livvy, I really do.

She's all face and hair and walk and not much else; her voice is sweet but incidental.

This album is her umpteenth in a long line of voids, and the content stays much the same though the form alters itself considerably, from clean-cut English pastel girlfriend to mature American beige mistress. She sings songs of yearning, being hurt or satisfied or frustrated in her uninteresting voice to a slow or fast rhythm section aided by a wailing, hypocritical "rock" guitar. Expert U.S. musicians, egged on by a useless Aphex Aural Exciter; not a mistake do they make, not a note do they miss, not a heart do they warm.

Included are hit naughty-piece single A Little More Love and an awful 'cover' of Gimme Some Lovin' (disgusting title) wherein Liv attempts funk and fervour and sounds sick as ever of singing. She also writes two of the songs, as good as those her career-men songwriters write. Muted, tutored; even when she tries to sound sinful her years of being sincere stifle her histrionics.

Singles-bar folk-music, I suppose...not for the Grease'ers, those bright infants, but for sad, bold bachelors and their Miss Adequates; searching, as in going to the bar and sitting on your stool, music. Me too, I went searching for the scent of my admiration (or at least a tune) and instead found a girl capable of giant-killing just killing time on redundant vinyl. Actually, it's the kind of record Diane Keaton will most likely inflict on the American album charts if she ever gets around to cutting those songs Bob Dylan wrote for her -tasteful, dealing with broken/struggling relationships, mature, boring, other-womanish, yeuchhh.

I don't think Olivia Newton-John is a god or a good singer; I just think every decade seems to desire a big screen blonde whose name has also been heard by every kitchen-sink (this is where Debbie Harry gets let out with the dish-water) in England and America. Late though she is, Olivia is the '70s one who could well be the '80s one too, just because the boys who love her and the girls who would love to be her are so tiny.

No is a word I can't say...You should learn to say it loud and often, superstar, and become a millionaire legend (but please keep on looking after the dolphins). You can be as tacky and tarty as you want on your album sleeves and it won't help or harm you anymore - you're famous to your new, important record-buyers through your film, and the purity and the tease is all part of your acting career to them. You really should get on with it.

Film is the word, is the world, is her world...

By Julie Burchill

Photo Caption: Below: Livvy and John share an old-fashioned look
John: "So that's you when you're a singer, huh?"
Liv: "Yep quite a hep chick, eh?
John: "Er, best stick to the screen dream, kid."
Pic by BRAD ELTERMAN, LFI.