Here’s the flattering and rather alarming review of my one-song spot at OOTB the other week from the OOTB site:
The poet laureate and Blog master of South Queensferry that is Norman Lamont
appeared next. Naked on the stage without loop-tapes, effects,
synthesisers or a backing band of his close friends and playing only
one chord on a tarty blonde lip-sticky guitar to form the relentless
love balled that is “Nicole”. Who cannot empathise with a surrealist
love story and geometrically obsessive puzzle that involves priests,
doctors, analysts, mothers and your own dear wife? Of course the wife
provides the best and most clear advice to the love-struck Norman. On
completing his performance Norman hurriedly left OOTB muttering
something about Dracula and his daughter, all rather worrying. By the
way at the end of the song I realised that I also loved Nicole and
possibly Norman’s wife.
In the interests of balance, and because I’m negotiating with my inner critic, here’s a different viewpoint …
Norman Lamont was up next, mercifully just for a squashee spot. Without his band, or even the electronic gizmoes with which he tries to disguise his shortcomings, he was reduced to his flat, two-note voice and strummed guitar on which, unbelievably for someone of his age, he could only muster one chord. He reeled off a series of couplets in praise of ‘Nicole’, some mildly amusing, but almost burst our eardrums between them with a shakily-pitched howl of ‘Nicole’. At the end of the song the protagonist finds his wife is in love with the same woman – big wow, lesbianism’s so funny, isn’t it? At least this tosh was better than the maudlin so-called love songs he’s touting for his next CD. Stick to the day job, Norman – not long to go to retirement!
My inner critic has since been despatched with Sapphire Bullets of Pure Love. Bastard.