THE legacy of Amy Winehouse’s Back To Black has cast long, looming shadows over many a career. Either intentionally or not, the holy grail most artists worth their salt seek is to match or surpass the benchmark of insight and painful truth presented by Southgate’s famous daughter.

This is of course an all but impossible task. Regardless, hot on the Gucci heels of other vexatious superstars Rihanna and Janet Jackson, Beyonce Knowles is the latest to be exposed as having questionable taste.

Abandoning the blueprint of fantastic songs, superbly performed, which has served Beyonce well for so many years, Lemonade consists of ten rubbish and two half decent tracks, parading as a thought-provoking work of integrity. Disappointingly Ms Knowles repeatedly mistakes a vulgar rant of expletives and unnecessary use of the F-word and the N-word for a stand against injustice and the world she disapproves of.

Hardly a conventional song is to be found on this set of relentless tirades set against a backdrop of substandard hip-hop workouts. Obviously, she has learned nothing about the power and majesty of understatement as demonstrated by the likes of Nina Simone or Billie Holliday.

The only two songs worth investigating are Daddy Lessons and Hold Up. The first is a country-tinged ditty, the kind of number Imelda May effortlessly delivers with panache and style, and the second provokes curiosity solely because it pilfers the bass line from Andy Williams’s Can’t Get Used To Losing You.

What a shame that Beyonce’s God-given talent has been squandered on such a work of mediocrity. Beyonce had the opportunity to be the Aretha Franklin of her generation. We were all duped. This latest effort is a disgrace and will be bargain-bin bound within the month.