Showing posts with label Simon Cowell. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Simon Cowell. Show all posts
30 August 2015
So much trouble in the world, yet programmes like X-factor return. The usual screaming voices singing songs without melody. Where was the exquisite Sinatra phrasing, the Fitzgerald soul, the charisma? I listened in vain. In the '50s my mother would drag me to distant cinemas showing Al Jolson in the Jolson Story. Electricity crackled when he sang. A few evenings ago we went to the Abbeye in Gaillac. Our friend, professional singer Martin St. Martin, gave a 'Sous les Etoiles du Tarn' concert organised by Entente Cordiale in support of cancer research. The setting was lovely, high above the tinkling waters of the Tarn. A full moon gave a rosy glow to the ancient pink brick buildings, but it was the music that enthralled. Martin even dedicated one song to me, the one that turns my knees to jelly: '...wise men say, only fools rush in, but I can't help falling in love with you....' Now there's a melody. Even Him indoors liked it, and he's difficult to please. And then Piaf's La Vie en Rose. Wonderful. A message for Mr. Cowell: stop pandering to youth's foolish notion of stardom. Find the next Jolson/Sinatra/Presley/Piaf. Now that's what a lot of us want to hear.
17th January 2010
I was feeling miserable. I even joined Facebook, but that told me I only had one friend. So, something had to be done.
On Monday we were wandering around the market at Caussade. The winter stall-holders were stamping their feet, their mingled breath telling their own story as they struggled to make a living. The only conversations I heard were steeped in occitan dialect, the ends of words having a special musical cadence all their own.
It was then that we passed the music stall. 'I know that voice,' I said. A shiver ran down my spine. 'I'll take it,' I said to the grateful stall-holder, shoving the CD deep inside my bag. It was just what I needed. When we got home and warmed up with a cup of chocolat chaud, I clicked the disc onto our radio/CD player.
And then she sang 'L'hymne a l'amour'. Oh my God. Have you heard it? The melody is just so haunting. Unmistakeably Edith Piaf. (Google Piaf, '20 Chansons d'Or' and listen to that song on your PC).
A message to Simon Cowell: when, oh when, is someone like Edith Piaf going to walk into your auditions and start to sing like that? That's what I long for. I don't want to hear karaoke, I don't want to hear rap. I want to hear someone who sends an instant tingle down the spine.
Simon: I'm waiting......
On Monday we were wandering around the market at Caussade. The winter stall-holders were stamping their feet, their mingled breath telling their own story as they struggled to make a living. The only conversations I heard were steeped in occitan dialect, the ends of words having a special musical cadence all their own.
It was then that we passed the music stall. 'I know that voice,' I said. A shiver ran down my spine. 'I'll take it,' I said to the grateful stall-holder, shoving the CD deep inside my bag. It was just what I needed. When we got home and warmed up with a cup of chocolat chaud, I clicked the disc onto our radio/CD player.
And then she sang 'L'hymne a l'amour'. Oh my God. Have you heard it? The melody is just so haunting. Unmistakeably Edith Piaf. (Google Piaf, '20 Chansons d'Or' and listen to that song on your PC).
A message to Simon Cowell: when, oh when, is someone like Edith Piaf going to walk into your auditions and start to sing like that? That's what I long for. I don't want to hear karaoke, I don't want to hear rap. I want to hear someone who sends an instant tingle down the spine.
Simon: I'm waiting......
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