Posts Tagged ‘sing’

No, Michael, sometimes it’s not a beautiful day

I’ve got this thing about Michael Buble. I can’t cope with him. I can’t cope with his endlessly cheery face and his insistence that he’s totally in love with me, even if he hasn’t met me yet. I’m glad he knows that some day it will all work out and that he’s having a beautiful day and that he’s feeling good and that he has a Christmas album full of love and cheery things and smiles and….. bleeeeurh. 

 

Sorry, I just vomited. 

 

“I can’t stop myself from smiling…. Let me tell you all the reasons why I think you’re one of a kind… And I’m feeling good…” and on and on and on, he goes. About his fabulous happiness and about how much he loves everyone.

 

You know what I want? Every time I hear one of his songs, I listen out for a line that says something like, “I’m a filthy crackwhore and I hate everyone….” Not because I think he’d be much improved, but because he’d seem a bit more human. Maybe he doesn’t need to go that far. Maybe he could just say, “I felt like rubbish the other day so I ate 23 chocolate bars and got drunk by myself at home.” I mean, even that would just round of his edges a little. 

 

He’s too plastic cheerful, like bubblegum or a colourful child’s toy that they learn to hate when they grow up because of it’s stupid cheery tunes and bright colours and you can never find the off switch so you’re forced to listen to an endless stream of squeaky-tuned silly-voiced madness…. 

 

I don’t hate him or anything. I just want him to do something naughty, give someone a wedgie live on television or release an angst ridden song, full of self-doubt and edginess. Maybe he should cover Smells Like Teen Spirit? O, but you know what would happen? He’d get a big band in there, 15 trumpets minimum, he’d have a big smile on his face, he’d do a few Elvis-esque leg-shake moves and he’d bop around having made it, somehow, into a cheery song to make you smile on a winter’s day. 

 

Winter doesn’t bother him in fact. He just dons a fluffy coat, gets some ice skates on and bops around an ice rink, smiling, endlessly smiling, and talking about how great snow is and Christmas and how he loves Santa and wants to be Santa and spread cheer and happiness and he never falls over on the ice. O no! He skates perfectly. And you know what? Even if he were to fall over on the ice, you know what he’d do? Give us a winning smile, say something like, “It’s a beautiful day to fall over on the ice,” sing a little ditty then bounce straight up, inviting the small children to hold his hand and skate in a line, laughing and being jolly.

 

Now, it’s ok to be a generally positive person. That’s ok, I get that. But he’s been saying it for quite a while now and sometimes I just want to shake him and say, “Michael, shhhhh for once, sometimes it’s NOT a beautiful day, alright?!”

 

A final word on his surname, what’s going on there? It’s Bubble, right? Bubble, like bubblegum, like bright colours and bubbles being popped and happiness and children having fun and gaiety. Just like Micheal Buble himself. Ridiculous.

An open letter to the Rich And Famous

To The Rich And Famous,

This letter has been prompted by Jessie J’s song, ‘Wild.’ I heard it at the Chime For Change concert for the first time and I thought, “You know what Jessie J? Shut up. Just shut up.”

And why, all you Rich And Famous, would I think this? Well, forgive me for overreacting in this post-recession climate, but if I’m going to scrape together the £10 or so that it costs to buy your album or single or whatever (and rest assured, I’m not, but if I was) and I know I’ve splurged a bit and there’s a little bit of residual guilt lingering in my mind about the fact that I should have paid that off my overdraft/credit card/loan and then I get home and I put it on and I sit back and I get ready to listen to you, Jessie J, and enjoy the music…. And then you go, “I just can’t believe that this is my life… It feels so crazy when you scream my name…”

Translation: You all love me and now I’ve got an amazing life.

O, you’re welcome Jessie. You’re very very welcome. It’s nice to know that you’re having a nice time from all the pennies I scraped together to get your album. I guess I’ll just go back to my menial task job again in a few hours and try and earn some more money so I can buy even more of your records and listen to you tell me about how fab everything is for you.

Isn’t it just wonderful to be you? Wonderful. Thanks for reminding me.

And you, Fergie. You’re not much better. Glamorous?! What was that about? What a fucking insult. You wear “them gold and diamond rings” but you still go to “Taco Bell.” What a comfort to me. I’m glad you reminded me of that. You know where I go? The kitchen. My own fucking kitchen. Because if I ate out every night I’d be broke.

Imagine that, Fergie! Being broke! O wait, you can’t. Cause you’re so fucking loaded… And real. We mustn’t forget that! O god, you’re so real “no matter how many records you sell.” Well, thank god for that.

And, you remind us, before you were “flyin’ first class,” you just had “a Mustang.” That must’ve been tough, Fergie. I can’t even imagine how you’ve suffered, just having a Mustang. You must’ve been so fucking poor.

Guess what I have, Fergie? My feet. My own two little feet. And when I need to go somewhere, I use them. I’ve also got this way flashy thing called an Oyster card. You put money on it and you can go on public transport. You should totes get one…. O wait, excuse me, of course not. Public transport! For a Glamorous first class flying lady like you. Pffft! What am I thinking!?

But yeh, totally real. I totally dig your realness, Fergie.

And you over in the corner there, J.Lo. You have not escaped my rage. This song has stuck with me for years, way before I had worked out that you were talking utter tripe. Because you, “Jenny,” you are still “from the block.” And in my sadness or my money worries or the trivialities of my comparatively mundane life, paying rent etc, I have always found strength from the fact that you, Jenny, you understand me. You understand my worries and concerns, a bit like Jesus really. Because you are like me, J.Lo, and you, like Fergie, are “real” and you have stayed “grounded as the amounts roll in.”

I’m sorry? The “amounts roll in”? So you’re loaded? Fuck off. Just be rich and stop going on about it.

I’m glad you’re loaded. I’m glad your shoes are worth more than I earn in a year. I’m glad you have a diamond encrusted mobile phone cover. That’s all fab and great. And I like to see pictures of beautiful people singing or acting well. That’s nice. It keeps me entertained. It gives me ideas for my next hairdo. I don’t need to know so much about your private life, to be honest. A bit of glamour and mystery is a good thing, I feel. But to show I like you’re acting/singing etc, I may part with money to experience it. Not often. But sometimes. Maybe.

But, for fuck’s sake, do me a favour and don’t sing at me about how fucking rich you are and how amazing your life is. And how my pennies spent on a record have helped you buy yourself a million billion pound mansion castle thing.

Just. Don’t.

I don’t need to hear that nonsense. Just sing your songs about love and make them sound nice. That’s all I’m asking of you.

And now, Rich And Famous, I shall leave you with a version of J.Lo’s big hit, adapted by my friend Cilla, when we were 17 years old.

“Don’t be fooled by the rocks I haven’t got,
I’m still, I’m still, Cilla from the block.
Used to have a little, still only have a little,
No matter where I go, I’m still where I came from,
Don’t be fooled by the rocks I haven’t got,
I’m still, I’m still Cilla from the block.”

Let that be food for thought, all you Rich And Famous.

Sincerely, Laura (from the block)