Tuesday, 22 December 2015


Whenever she wins all those child superstar singing competitions, it’s never because she can actually sing. Her voice is an unremarkable high-pitched whine with nothing to set it apart from all the other girls’ renditions of show tunes standards. What’s always seen Cheryl prevail is her innate conviction. A belief such as hers becomes a kind of magical thinking, a drive to shape reality through sheer force of will. Here’s the thing: if no other consensual version of events exists beyond this audience’s perception, then surely that shared experience can be manipulated into whatever shape Cheryl sees fit. That communal feeling becomes a mere stage set where, at least for the duration of the song, Cheryl has the power to arrange the mise en scène accordingly. Her gift has developed over time and its power is closely tied up with whatever took control of her flailing fists in those Drink club toilets. That long-suppressed rage is her genius.

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