Christmas Number Two

Bloody hell, for the second time in as many years I can say I've written a topical blog...

"It's Christmas!" yelled woolly-haired tartan-botherer Nobert "Noddy" Holder on his seminal Yuletide song with the backwards S. For a couple of weeks a year he's right as well, as all that is correct and right-thinking in life is replaced by tinsel and minature toy snowmen who grind their hips to the electronic tinkling of Jingle Bells.

Back in the good old days, Christmas number one was worth listening out for. It wasn't necessarily a christmassy song, but it was a genuine attempt to achieve top spot, and it meant something if you managed it. These days, it's all bloody X-Idol and Pop Factor and the like, meaning the number one is sewn up as early as August, when middle-aged women from Glasgow are murdering a Motown classic in front of a startled Louis Walsh. To say it was a cynical marketing ploy for each year's contest to end just before Christmas would be something of an understatement. Unfortunately, as long as there are vaccuous people with nothing better to do than watch dozens of personality-challenged cretins warble the latest hits in their own adolescent style, I'm afraid we're stuck with it.

Anyroad, that's not the nub of my rant, although the above phenomemna has given rise to my latest festive irk. This year's hotly-tipped number one is a cover of the Lenoard Cohen song "Hallelujah" by whichever pop drone won this blasted Factor competition. As you can imagine, it's like shit in a field at the moment; every regional and national station is playing it at 25-minute intervals to ensure we rush to our local record stockist and push it to the top of the Hit Parade.

There's a problem with it, though. It's shit.

My preferred version of the song is by Rufus Wainwright, which is achingly beautiful. Low-key singing and simple piano backing give it it's unique quality, and it's a welcome addition to any programme which is trying to force an emotional response from its viewers. Now, I'm not saying that is the only acceptable version of the tune, but I'm afraid this poppette's offering has slightly spolit it for me. It starts off alright, with the same low-key vocals and simple backing, but after a couple of verses she's like "Forget this, let's take it to town". All of a sudden there's banging drums, a screeching choir and Bonnie Tyler-style power ballading all over the shop. From the sublime to the ridiculous in seconds, as the entire ambiance and feeling of the record is blown out of the water in favour of fist-clenching and giving it large. Shambolique, as the French might say.

To make matters worse (if that was possible), she then decides to do that annoying thing that some supposed vocalists do, where they stick ten different notes on the end of some words, as if they're trying to put their own inimitable slant on the sound. All you're doing love is over-complicating a song which needs to be kept simple to get its message across. Your high-necked warbling is ruining it for everyone, so knock it off.

That Leona Lewis is the same. Fit, albeit slightly lion-faced, but her verion of Snow Patrol's 'Run' is awful. Yes, she is note-perfect and as good technically as a singer is able to be, but she injects no passion whatsoever into her performance, and she's changing notes left, right and centre. Listen to the original; Gary Lightbody sounds broken and vulnerable which makes the lyrics work and the song make sense. Lewis has ripped all of the pathos out of it in one fell swoop, leaving an empty, pointless and forgettable version. Lightbody may have made a packet in royalties, but I bet he winces when he hears one of his finest works being ripped to shreds by someone who's only been in the business five minutes.

In conclusion, there's nothing wrong with cover versions. Indeed, a lot of the Live Lounge stuff when an act recreates a well-known song with a different muscial slant is great, but you've got to pick your songs with care. Some songs are good because of how they are performed, not because of who's singing them. So think on, Cowell...