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Pop music
The sound of grating music
Marcus Berkmann hears Cher's vocal tic resounding in his ears at all times of the day and night The release of a new single by Cher is not usually an event to stir the heart, or indeed prompt any reaction whatsoever. It's merely part of the natural rhythm of things. After a couple of years of notice- able Cherlessness, her record company realises that the world is running short of overcooked power ballads performed by cosmetically enhanced warblers of a cer- tain age. Studio time is booked, the mar- keting machine cranks up, and six months later a brand new Cher single stands before us, sounding for all the world like every previous Cher single ever recorded. Usually of far higher entertainment value than the song is Cher's latest wig: its colour, its shape, its obviousness and the surrounding speculation that its wearer is, in fact, completely bald.
So last week, when I tuned into Top Of The Pops to catch the current coiffure (metallic blonde, long bob, very obvious indeed), it was only incidentally that I realised that the latest song she had cho- sen to murder was a favourite of mine, Marc Cohn's 'Walking In Memphis'. Needless to say, Cher's version has excised all the charm and energy of the original with a precision one might marvel at, if only there weren't an even greater distrac- tion in her performance. `Ah'm walking in Memph-uss,' she sings, grinning richly. `Walking with my feet ten feet off of the ground. 'Walking in Memph-uss.' Memph- uss? Where might that be? Such tiny vari- ations from orthodox pronunciation should not be irritating, but they are. Indeed, once noticed, they can never quite be forgotten. Vocal tics can lodge in your consciousness forever if they feel like it. Worse, you hear other Cher records on the radio and you realise that she does the same thing in every one. Short T sounds are anathema to her. Short 'u' sounds are far more agreeable. Every time she sings it, she sounds as though she is smiling. Clearly she is delighted with this particu- lar tic. No doubt she has developed it after years working with expensive voice coaches — either that or by spending too much time with New Zealanders. But what's certain is that it is explicitly designed to be recognised as a Cher trade- mark. No one else does it, mainly because no one else would think of doing it. This leaves Cher free to claim it for herself. After a while you can hear Cher singing `Memph-uss' at all times of day and night. One morning it is the first thing that comes into your mind as you wake up. From there to full blooded psychosis is but a short step.
This is not an isolated problem. Cher is only one of many current threats to the pop fan's mental health. For we live in an era of irritating pop singers. We live in an era in which the genius of Van Morrison goes unquestioned, in which Mariah Carey sells records in the tens of millions, in which excess is indulged and restraint undervalued. Cher wilfully mispronounces innocent vowels, and has enough vibrato to sink a small yacht. But, compared to some singers, she is the soul of modera- tion. At least she stops singing from time to time. Mariah Carey never stops. She sings the notes she is supposed to sing, adds in a few more in between, and then fills in all the rest of the space whether there's any need to or not. Her version of Nilsson's 'Without You' is a display of immense vocal skill and no judgment at all. She must have lungs the size. of car airbags.
The pioneer of this approach was Whit- ney Houston, whose first hit 'Saving All My Love For You' introduced the world to another startling pair of lungs and a set of vocal chords that could probably lift weights. Ms Houston can certainly sing, but she just never knows when to stop. Indeed, it was at this early stage of her career that the record-buying public prob- ably had its only opportunity to stop her. If that song hadn't sold, if everyone had noticed the monstrous effects of her vocal pyrotechnics on stray dogs and sensitive medical equipment, perhaps all this could have been avoided. But the album from which 'Saving All My Love For You' was taken became the highest selling debut album in pop history. Whitney Houston became a star. Soul singers everywhere lis- tened and copied.
Meanwhile, in Ireland, a second front of annoying singers was forming behind the redoubtable figure of Van Morrison. For years Morrison had been attracting glow- ing reviews and selling no records. His gruff, free-form vocals were seen as some sort of barrier to mainstream success. In the late 1980s and early 1990s, however, he started making records that were far worse than anything he had ever produced before. His music was tired and repetitive, the lyrics barmier than ever and the vocals increasingly self-parodic. Instantly his sales picked up. The glowing reviews con- tinued — in modern times only The Artist Still Known As Prince has made worse records and continued to enjoy such a favourable critical reception — and gradu- ally Morrison became one of those uncriti- cisable stars whose reputations far outweigh anything so trivial as their achievements. Worse, you could spot his ever-growing influence on a whole genera- tion of Irish stars: Bono of U2, Sinead O'Connor, and most recently his heir apparent as Ireland's most irritating singer, Dolores O'Riordan of The Cran- berries. O'Riordan has taken Morrison's template and added her own, highly origi- nal variation: a sort of semi-yodel that she adds to the end of almost every word she sings. The effect is not unlike being repeatedly stabbed with a blunt pencil. By the end of a song you are feeling sore and hostile; by the end of a whole album you are looking for someone else to stab. The Cranberries' two albums have sold in their millions.
Pop radio has become a minefield. Wherever you turn, Carey or the Cran- berries or Bjork are lying in wait, ready to pounce. It doesn't matter if you like their music, for an irritating singer undermines the best of songs. Cher is only the thin end of an ominously substantial wedge. Walking In Memph-uss indeed. It'll be an enormous hit.
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