By Dawn Cranfield
Michael Bublé, I Love Your Voice, but Shut up Already!
I have been a fan of Michael Bublé’s from the first time I heard him sing “Save the Last Dance for Me”; the Canadian crooner had a fan. Within weeks of listening to the hit song being overplayed on the radio, I purchased two of his CD’s. His voice filled was the only one I listened to each day as I made my round trip to work each day, and I downloaded songs to my MP3 player for my cool down after my runs.
For years, I have enjoyed listening to him belt out remakes of songs popularized by the smooth sophisticated voices of other singers, and I have rarely been disappointed. Last Christmas I even purchased his latest CD dedicated to some of the most standard holiday hits I have loved since childhood. I have
I had often opined I would enjoy seeing the seemingly polished, erudite international entertainer in concert, until the unspeakable happened. So, what would make my acoustic love affair seemingly come to a screeching halt?
While listening to one of the music applications on my phone one day, I had selected “Michael Bublé radio” and a song came on. It was a live version; not bad, I thought to myself as I selected the little hand symbol indicating I liked the song. As the song came to an end, Michael started to speak to his live audience, “Please, please,” he said over thundering applause, his voice taking on a strange accent that I always like to the Count from Sesame Street when I repeat the story, “You love me too much.” My love affair was over.
Something in me simply wants entertainers to do their job and to entertain; I want a singer to sing, an actor to act, and authors to write. I have
no desire to know what they do in their free time; from their personal relationships, their children, their sexual orientation, or their political affiliations. I do not seek the information out, and when I find out in a peripheral manner, such as glancing through the news and a story catches my eye, it can stretch from mild disinterest to bitter disappointment.
When I was in my early 20’s, I was enamored of a song by a band called Pretty Boy Floyd; so I bought their cassette, Leather Boyz with Electric
Toyz. I had no idea what they looked like until I saw the case; I was bitterly disillusioned and could no longer listen to my favorite song of the day. They wore more makeup than I had ever worn in my life, and most of them were prettier than I was at that time. No more Pretty Boy Floyd.
Last year I was flipping through the television channels while staying at a hotel one night; there was an HBO special on about a great new band I had been enjoying, Kings of Leon. I watched the special with an open mind, I thought. It was interesting, to say the least; I was delighted to learn the group took the name Leon after the members’ grandfather. However, I was less delighted by many of their manners and later some of the things I learned they said about their fans at a concert at The Knitting Factory in Reno, NV. The negative feelings reverberate through my mind every time I hear one of my favorite songs by them now.
Perhaps, I judge too harshly; I really do not wish for you to shut up, Michael, and I am truly happy for your success. Maybe you could just be a little more humble.