Isaac Hayes. He’s not just Chef on South Park, he’s a god of love.
If you have any doubt, a listen to the classic album Hot Buttered Soul should see you right.
Franklin Bruno. No, not the boxer, the singer. I borrowed Kiss Without Makeup off a friend some time ago, and he’s not getting it back. Goodness only knows what Mr Bruno looks like – but that voice, those words, they’re heaven.
Amon Tobin. I saw him live once in London, a few years back. He didn’t play any of the songs from his albums, just got up and did a straight two-hour dj set. Head down, ‘phones on – complete geekery, lost in his music, I love that.
Joe Strummer. I learnt what sexy was, as a young child, listening to the Clash – a firm favourite of my father’s. You read reviews all the time talking about bands playing live that are “tight.”
They’re not. The Clash are so tight, they can barely squeeze a wiggle. But oh, what a wiggle it is.
Air. Who wouldn’t want a fey French boy of her very own?
Erlend Oye. Or how about a Norwegian, for that matter?
Pulp. Still the best, and I really don’t care what other people think. Jarvis Cocker’s limbs are so long your tongue might fall off before you got to his body. Or you might die of thirst. Or you might take a wrong turn, end up in Sharm el-Sheikh, and decide to run off with a Bedouin tribe disguised as a young boy, letting the camel herders take turns with you behind the dunes. Whatever.
Jarvis would so be down with that.
Stephin Merritt. The sexiest thing someone can do is be unattainable. Merritt is gay, he’s unhappy, and he writes songs about people who are thousands of times more glamourously careworn than you can imagine. He writes so many songs for so many projects he doesn’t have time to love, and anyway, he’s seen it all. You do not have a chance with Stephin Merritt. Love this man.
Eric Burdon. Circa some ten years before I was born, obviously.
Mick Jagger is Eric Burdon in his dreams. So so hot a pinpoint the same heat as him could kill a person standing two miles away. Fact!
Neko Case. Country songs that sound like someone might die on stage any minute. Probably the singer. Probably of a broken heart. It’s probably your fault, you c***.
Robbie. Oh, Robbie, I will never understand, really. And I get the feeling that you know that and are just trying ever more wacky things to impress me. Give it up. It’s over. We’ll always have Take That.
Kelly Clarkson. Um. I am not digging that. I don’t know why anyone would, and America, if you take her back, we promise not to send Keane over again.
Graham Coxon. Just the wrong side of geeky. Looks like he would prefer Games Workshop to you.
Rogue Traders. Beyond the repetitive, joyless lyrics… beyond the styled-to-within-an-inch-of-their-lives videos… beyond the fetish look made safe for the Top Twenty… there beats an empty heart of cheesy discos yet to come.
James Blunt. I tried to make this list without mentioning the formerly-ubiquitous Capt Blunt. Truly I did. But the yawning vacuum of suckage that is You’re Beautiful forced me to write this, if only to escape its event horizon.
Pussycat Dolls. Rock on, Dolls. Give the two fingers up to anyone who questions why a groups of ex-strippers should embark on a singing career. Fly the freak flag high and proud. But I would never sleep with any of you – except on a dare.
The Rolling Stones. They have a combined age of ten to the power of a *billion*, people. And unless we stop throwing pubescent models in their direction, by the year 2026 thirteen percent of the UK population will be offspring of a Rolling Stone. Think of the children!
Paolo Nutini, James Morrison…. You know who you are. The sensitive singer-songwriters who make James Blunt look like Apollo with a hard-on. Please stop, go back to your chip shops, and fry me some damn scraps already.
Led Zeppelin. ‘Get the Led out’? Put the Led back in. Please.
Puffy. Diddy. Whatever your name is. You are not Unforgivable, except of course when demanding to be called by a name only highly inbred families use in open conversation. Take the models, take the yacht, and cruise off into a fresh to death sunset already
Back to The Further Adventures of a London Call Girl