I'm driving to a meeting with my colleague Pete, Debbie Harry's
growling "Call me", and we are eating crisps interspersed with
Percy Pigs - it's officially a road trip.
Twenty minutes later we're only as far as Chiswick, and Adele is
already begging us not forget her. I decide to lighten the mood
with a little Gaga, when Pete says casually, "You have a definite
preference…for female artists."
It sounds innocent enough, but I detect a note of judgment in his
tone. He seems to be inferring that my sexuality is somehow
governing my choice in music - there's no men allowed.
I tell him to stick his hand in the glove box and grab Morrissey,
but instead he lands on Dolly Parton. I point him under the seat,
but after a brief fumble with Doris Day and Pink, he returns with
nothing more fruitful than a tin of travel sweets.
Clearly he can't tell his arse from his Elbow, because I've
definitely got some Morrissey in here somewhere. Keeping my eyes
firmly on the M4 I have a quick rummage in my side door. It's
carnage in there. A Diet Coke has fallen over and covered the loose
CD: Beth Ditto's out of her box, Chrissie Hynde is sleeveless and I
have to peel Rihanna off Alicia Keys.
I love male vocalists, I really do, but the evidence suggests
otherwise - my CD collection is stacked against me. If I don't find
some testosterone-fuelled tunes soon he's going to think I'm a lez
miserables who only listens to angst-ridden songbirds.
This is not true. I've never owned any Melissa Etheridge. In fact
until I met my girlfriend I thought Indigo Girls was a range of
Levis. I feel around under my seat in desparate last ditch attempt
to find a male vocalist, and I find an unmarked CD. It has no
label - it could go either way.
Please don't be Kelly Clarkson. Please don't be Kelly Clarkson.
Please don't be Kelly Clarkson.
Oh no, I'm done for, it's the XX. What could be more Lez than
I'll have to admit defeat and face the music. My heart skips a
beat. "At last" he says, "something decent. I love the XX."