The Arabic above his name actually says ‘talentless fuckwad’ but let’s not tell him that, eh?
I had to drive to the Forest of Dean and back today – about a 200 mile round trip – to see my grandson’s school production. As Mrs Shark was laid low with a nasty bout of Meniere’s vertigo I went on my own, with just Radio 2 for company.
So, there I was, driving across the rather foggy Cotswolds – a most beautiful part of England when you can see it – when a Chris de Burgh track came on the radio.
No, it wasn’t that execrable dribble of dogwank ‘The Lady in Red’, but an equally odious squirt of arse gravy called ‘Shit for Sure’, although as the song went on I realised he was singing ‘Ship to Shore’ which seemed rather less fitting as the song ground on to its turgid conclusion.
As you can tell, I loathe Chris de Burgh with a passion; and for several reasons:
- His voice – pitched midway between the bleat of a newly-castrated billy goat and the off-key warbling of a tenth-rate nightclub singer…
- His lyrics – on the surface full of metaphor and deep meaning but underneath just adolescent flatulence…
- His music – predictable hack work with chord changes that a 5 year-old could predict and a 6 year old could write…
- His hair – a style rooted in the 70s and just long enough to make him look a bit trendy in a nerdy ‘groovy teacher’ way but not so long as to offend – give me fucking Lemmy anytime…
- His eyebrows – like two excessively hirsute voles frozen in the act of some sort of desperate kamikaze leap into oblivion, having decided that listening to his mewling pap has strayed just a bit too far into the realm of the un-fucking-bearable…
For fuck’s sake, if you want to listen to MOR-ish pop sung by a male singer-songwriter, there are people with talent around like Chris Rea who also plays a mean slide guitar and at least strays outside the formulaic.
Or Al Stewart – great narrative lyrics, fantastic music and great taste in session musicians.
Or go back to the greats like Sinatra.
Or even Paul McCartney, who mines a rich seam of regurgitated Beatles songs and increasingly dull originals year after fucking year.
Anyone, in fact, whose voice doesn’t sound as if they decided to apply ‘Deep Heat’ to their scrotum after blowtorching the skin off it.
The talentless wimp de Burgh makes grandiose-sounding ‘music’ for people who don’t like music and wouldn’t recognise it even if bit them in the fucking arse.
Yes, I’m bound to have offended his many fans and he’s still very popular – in spite of having scored fuck-all success in recent years – but that doesn’t mean he’s any good.
Pot Noodles sell well and they’re shit and full of shit.
Likewise Chris de Burgh.
Update: This may amuse…