Thank goodness I never found a bookmaker willing to take my bets on pop music’s next big thing. The fact that bands like the Howling Bells and The Concretes aren’t topping the bill at Glastonbury, conjures up a picture of a bookie’s outstretched podgy hand and a glum-faced me.
Of course I’ve backed the occasional winner in the last few years: I was one of the first to be raving about Franz Ferdinand and long before the Arctic Monkeys made the charts, I had them marked down as the bizz. But what’s there to shout about? As my granny used to say: ‘Stand a blind cat in a fish tank and sooner or later he’ll be munching on a guppy’.
So this time round, when I set about drafting my latest predictions, I decided on a different tack, and instead of going for bands and singers sure to make it big in the UK, I focused on yet-to-be-famous British acts with a well-deserved chance of making a name for themselves across the pond … yeah, yeah, I know this seems like I’m making life difficult for myself, but – and keep this under your hat – I’ve got a cunning plan. You see, I’m only plumping for performers with a mushrooming core of Stateside fans … and I’ve done my homework. Devilish nifty, eh?
I’d already heard that Stornoway were a bit special and yet, the first time I saw them walk on stage, I couldn’t figure out what all the fuss was about: a guitarist who might have just packed up his carpentry tools and made a dash to the gig; a bearded chap who must have forgotten to wear his British Birdwatchers membership badge and two other guys playing drums and bass (notice how the green-eyed man in me refuses to major on their poster-boy film star looks. Grrr).
And then Brian Briggs chirped the opening lines of Zorbing, and by the time the band was in glorious full swing, I was hooked. Still am, only more so. Brilliant.
All that remains is for the weather to be kinder on their transatlantic crossing than it was during their foray to the Islands of Scotland and they are nailed on to go down a storm … forgive the schoolboy pun.
And then there’s the wonderful Ruarri Joseph. This Newquay-based singer and musician extraordinaire is as gifted as any of the emerging West Coast stars and wittier than most. If only he were to package up the video of him performing Chocolate Jesus in the back of his van and send it to Jack Johnson’s own Brushfire Records, I’ve got a sneaking feeling that the ex-surfer would snap up young Ruarri in a trite … and more to the point, he wouldn’t be disappointed.
Now, I didn’t pencil in The Kosmos on the strength of one song. Andrew Crawford, the band’s singer/songwriter, has penned a whole catalogue of Indie-pop gems. But considering So In Love has already been featured on Dig Music. Vol 1, and now that the über-connected Peter Lippman is all set to direct the promo video for the song, we in the UK will soon be wishing we’d gone to see more of this great band while they were still playing low-price venues.
Although the last name on my list has yet to hit the headlines, I already knew that Paolo Nutini was such a big fan that he had invited him to guest at his gig at La Scala.
Just like my biggest best friend who runs the Robin Hood pub in Cardiff, Pete Lawrie was born in Wales … what was that? Cheap plug? Huh! Just as if. Anyway, knowing that Paolo has a vast army of adoring American fans who would, in the main, eat haggis if he recommended it – I say ‘in the main’ only because amongst the multitude there must be one or two well-read foodies who know what haggis is made from. But minced lungs and lights apart, and working on the any-friend-of-Paolo-is-a-friend-of-mine assumption, Pete Lawrie has a ready-made fan club all eager to take him to their hearts. And that’s without any mention of his songwriting skills and a voice that makes me think that if Ménière’s disease forces Ryan Adams to quit the stage, I know a Welshman ready and more than able to step into his shoes … and I’m not talking about my biggest best friend who runs the Robin Hood pub in Cardiff!
Hoping to rubber stamp my choice with some professional opinions, I Googled Nutini+reviews+La Scala … and this is where I got sidetracked. No; let me rephrase that: my train of thought was hijacked.
For the benefit of newcomers to Stereoboard, I should mention that a while ago I wrote an article about Paolo Nutini. It didn’t cause PJ O’Rourke to lose any sleep, but judging by the comments, it was well received and certainly attracted attention. All of which explains why I reckoned I’d earned myself a freebie for Paolo’s concert at the Royal Albert Hall. Nige Stereoboard took an altogether different view. He sounded like Windsor Davies when he boomed: ‘Fans first!’
And so when Google offered up reviews of the sell-out concert, I could have been forgiven for putting my soon-to-be-famous-four on hold whilst I discovered what I’d been denied.
If only because David Cheal is one of the more informed and objective critics, I started with his column, and working on the premise that nitpicking is an inescapable part of the brief, I was left with what amounted to a favourable review from a well-regarded journalist.
There was good and bad in both the Times’ and the Guardian’s reviews (although I’m still trying to get my head around Kitty Empire’s ‘his songs are full of warmth but become plastic in bulk’). The tiresome references to Paolo’s hunchback stance were better suited to the pages of Osteopathy Monthly, but at least old Quasimodo didn’t get a mention in dispatches … and anyway, why this preoccupation? Elvis swung his hips, Jagger minced across the stage and Liam Gallagher cranes his neck … and third-rate impersonators across the land are gifted something to shore up their vocal shortcomings. It’s what’s known in the business as a trademark … now tell me about the music, for God’s sake!
But despite the oh-so-clever, niggly putdowns, I was left thinking that Paolo had won them over.
Now if you think I was getting a tad snarky about those two reviews, let me tell you that I felt like kicking the snot out of Simon Price once I’d read his bit in the Independent … and having been slated as ‘a band of Disney Aristocats in human form ‘, I like to think that any one of The Vipers would back me up just in case the man plays second row forward for his local rugby club.
Now I’ve no intention of lending credibility to his comments by repeating them. If you’re one of those who reckons that criticism for criticism’s sake is good journalism, then check it out for yourself … oh, and don’t forget to compare his review to others … and then go figure!
Now, before I go any further, let me just say that I’m not here to talk-up the performance. I wasn’t there. I can’t comment. And anyway, Paolo doesn’t need me to leap to his defence: he’s only got to open his fan mail – and his bank statement – to know that he is doing it right by the people who matter. Which is why my sympathy lies with those who pay the piper – none of whom deserve to be belittled by a smart-arsed fun-sucker vainly hoping to portray himself as hip or groovy or of-the-minute. If it’s any consolation to the fans he maligned as ‘square’, his vitriol-filled pen only draws a picture of a peevish bullyboy.
OK, so the seats weren’t all taken by it-girls and catwalk queens and Camden Town luvvies, but the consensus is that those who paid a hefty wodge for their tickets loved every minute. Just as it should be. Wonderful. And there’s plenty to be said for a spot of sixties-style pop adoration. I travelled far and wide to see Blondie in their heyday, and let me tell you when Debbie Harry swanned on to the stage, I … no, no, best not go there.
Oh, and just in case Mr Price feels he’s done his job by attracting attention, think again, buster. In the UK alone, Paolo’s gang is at least a million strong. The Independent’s circulation for February fell just short of 184,000 … 6-4 on says there’ll be no improvement!
A week or so ago, I received an email from an American friend of mine – a mega, mega fan of Nutini – who was so wound up by the review that she pointed at the Independent’s Russian owner and suggested a conspiracy was afoot.
Now when it comes to conspiracies, I’m your man. I own more than 30 books on JFK’s assassination, including a rare copy of The Texas Connection, and without wanting to sound bigheaded, I’ve even got a fair idea who fired the kill shot.
And there’s more: I still question why the Americans haven’t gone back to the moon, and I’m convinced we’re being kept in the dark about the goings-on at Roswell. But even I couldn’t begin to explain why a Russian ex-diplomat would have it in for a Scottish pop singer … and then it began to dawn on me: the well-travelled oligarch must have visited the Highlands where someone served him a double-helping of haggis … yeah, yeah, now it starts to make sense.
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Although the last name on my list has yet to hit the headlines, I already knew that Paolo Nutini was such a big fan that he had invited him to guest at his gig at La Scala.
