In Britain, there are some beloved figures and traditions that many of us dare not question – even if, quietly, we feel differently. The notion that Monty Python is the epitome of comedy, for example. Our fierce defence of the full English breakfast (I count myself in this camp). Our refusal to stop harping on about winning the (men’s) World Cup almost 60 years later. I could go on.
Recently, the talents of one our most treasured celebs – beloved to the point of delusion, perhaps – had that veil of protection lifted. Cilla Black. Namely, her singing.
I’d made disparaging comments while visiting my mother just weeks ago (she’d absent-mindedly put on a BBC Four documentary about the singer), but they felt like the kind of thing you’d only ever say in private. As clips of her piercing warbling played in the background, I wondered aloud: “I don’t get it. She sounds like a resident pub karaoke singer. Did you think she was good back then?”
“You think I was paying attention to Cilla Black in the 70s?” My mother replied dryly (to be fair, she had only just arrived in the UK and had bigger fish to fry).
Still, when people began to tweet in response to recirculated clips of her singing covers – author Justin Myers’ comment that she had a “voice like a fire in a pet shop” in particular sent me over the edge – something felt a little naughty about joining in with the sniggering. In private, it seemed understood that the Liverpudlian icon’s singing had always been mediocre at best. In public, I’d never seen such scenes.
It made me wonder about other British celebs we unduly celebrate for their supposed talents. There are more than you’d think.
One of mine has always been Elton John. Now, don’t get me wrong, the man is talented. He is of course a brilliant songwriter and pianist. He has championed many important causes and has an impressive knack for sharing his wisdom and platform with artists of numerous genres and ages. He has many a hit that I love. But, actually, he sounds like a mediocre cruise ship singer who’s on the verge of risking it all to audition for The X Factor. The timbre of his voice is not pleasant – and I don’t think I’ll ever enjoy it.
For others, it’s Cliff Richard. I don’t think anyone else in my life or in public has ever suggested his talents are anything close to being worthy of praise, or the sort of longevity he has inexplicably enjoyed.
Another for me? The Beatles. I’ve never quite “got” it. You could put it down to my age, I suppose, but I don’t think it’s quite that. Though I’m able to keep up with some new releases in the charts, my taste in music – which spans several genres – is anything but current. I put it down to not having been brought up with them in the same way that other 60s and 70s giants like, say, Marvin Gaye, Curtis Mayfield, Nina Simone, or Stevie Wonder (none of them British, I know) were played on rotation in my household.
When I was introduced to The Beatles’ music, it was at school, where over-confident boys would incessantly butcher Blackbird or Hey Jude on the guitar while I looked on in boredom, or when, on a school trip to Old Trafford after George Best died, I first heard the football chant “we all live in a Georgie Best world” sung to the tune of “Yellow Submarine”.
When I got older, my university’s feminist society chair’s insistence that John Lennon and Yoko Ono’s “Woman is the N****r of the World” was an honourable song that wasn’t worthy of criticism soured me on The Beatles even more.
The point is, I think we could all do with a bit more honesty when it comes to our real, relatively harmless opinions on generally revered artists, as well as other aspects of pop culture, if for no other reason than the fact that it feels good to admit it out loud. Gavin and Stacey? Always hated it. Adele’s music? A depressing, middle-of-the-road snoozefest. Ashley Banjo? Get him off the telly.
Right, your turn.
We’re finally admitting that Cilla Black couldn’t sing. Now, some more home truths
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23.11.2023
In Britain, there are some beloved figures and traditions that many of us dare not question – even if, quietly, we feel differently. The notion that Monty Python is the epitome of comedy, for example. Our fierce defence of the full English breakfast (I count myself in this camp). Our refusal to stop harping on about winning the (men’s) World Cup almost 60 years later. I could go on.
Recently, the talents of one our most treasured celebs – beloved to the point of delusion, perhaps – had that veil of protection lifted. Cilla Black. Namely, her singing.
I’d made disparaging comments while visiting my mother just weeks ago (she’d absent-mindedly put on a BBC Four documentary about the singer), but they felt like the kind of thing you’d only ever say in private. As clips of her piercing warbling played in the background, I wondered aloud: “I don’t get it. She sounds like a resident pub karaoke singer. Did you think she was good back then?”
“You think I was paying........
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