After what has been known as ‘The Mika Incident’ (I wowed the album for all of three days, then grew so tired of its repetitive songs and Scissor Sisters rip-off that even a fleeting glimpse of Mr Penniman’s bouncy curls made me jump with all my weight on the ‘Skip’ button), I swore that I would never again acquire music solely on grounds of the artist being gay (which, incidentally, Mika has never said he was, claiming that it does not matter).
Well, guess what? Mika is right. It does not matter.
And yet, I fell for it again. Enter 24-year-old openly gay Chris Garneau. A role model. Too bad his album is absolutely not my cup of tea at all. Whispered piano ballads, one after the other, no less than fourteen of them. Turns out the only thing we have in common is our sexual orientation.
The other night while I was preparing dinner I made a point of listening to his whole album, out of respect. After all, the young man has released a record, whereas it’s a major event if I manage to win my laziness long enough to post two days in a row here.
By song four I was contemplating using the kitchen knife for a much less culinary purpose than chopping tomatoes.
By song eight even Anthony and the Johnsons sounded thigh-slapping ha-ha funny in comparison.
I struggled to get to the end and I finally had to stop the last song half way through because I heard Dr B.’s key in the lock and I did not want him to think that I was killing dinner with my own bare hands (instead of simply frying it).
And by the way, those tomatoes? Imported by Tesco from ‘sunny’ Poland. Go figure.