In the build up to Live Earth, the concept was dragged to the floor and given the most almighty kicking by pretty much every journo in the land. My faith in the media is restored.
Jonathan Ross – whose main job was to smooth over organisational incompetence by rephrasing the same question continually, before handing over to a “global act” – gleaned the odd ballsy, honest answer. The most memorable: David Baddiel, bemoaning the fact that if you question a few things that don’t add up, backed up by the most eminent of advice, you get called a “climate-change denier”.
Put it there, Dave.
James Blunt’s response to the hot topic? Oh God, don’t get me started. Okay then, get me started. He asked for it.
So he’s just done his performance: position fixed, strumming every bit as loosely as a Thunderbirds puppet; eyes gauping ahead, like someone at the back of the crowd is holding up a magic-eye picture, and he’s started to make out a rocket ship. From Back To Bedlam, he does Wise Men (the one where he rips off Elton John) because You’re Beautiful is, like, too obvious, man. He manages a so-so cover of Wild World by Cat Stevens, and – surprise to end all surprises – he slips in a song off his upcoming long-player.
He comes into the Beeb’s studio. In addition to kissing his arse a bit, Graham Norton describes his beardy look as “Catnip”, a reference that either goes over Blunt’s head or offends him slightly, as he forces a quizzical smirk.
And then, preceding a glib load of cack about wanting to make a difference in some way, comes Jimmy’s answer to Live Earth’s critics: “I think it’s very easy to be cynical…”
Yes, it effing well is, isn’t it. You luxury-jet it in from California to churn out billions of watts to promote your new record under a banner that says, “Look at me. I care.”
Use your brain, lad. Shun Live Earth. Strap a twelve-string to your back, step out of your Hollywood pad, get on a bike and use your military fitness to cycle all the way down to South Central LA, and play a gig in a school hall for some seriously disadvantaged kids. No microphone, just good old fashioned acoustics. On the way back, stop off at Beverley Hills High, and do the same for young ‘uns possibly even more prone to wasting leccy. Ban all cameras so the world isn’t reminded of what you look or sound like pre-release. Then go home.
Then, it would be very difficult to be cynical, wouldn’t it James?
It won’t happen. The reason is, he and his “people” don’t give a fig about being different, cool, or worthy. It’s all about the wonga. That’s why his emotion-stirring songwriting talent is buried under layers of polished dad-friendly production…which is why I can’t cry to No Bravery, a gut-wrenching army tale of everyman disillusionment. Shame.
You can take the rich kid from the castle…
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