Such golden tonsils were wasted on us.

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Root

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Root

SUCH GOLDEN TONSILS WERE wasted on us. Briefly they soared above Ladrockland, distracting us from the prevailing sun-sheey-aayne whines with a glimmer of glamour. Oh, we loved our gender-bending Bretts’n’Brians (as long as they stayed ambiguously ‘bi’ and drank pints) but a black, beautiful, gay, indie icon? Nah, mate, too interesting for us! Got any Hurricane #1?

McAlmont, with a larynx hewn from the very loins of Marvin Gaye, was born to raise the rafters of an M People support at the Albert Hall rather than shuffle Ben Shermans at the Forum. So he retracts the ‘Soul Vocalist Seeks Guitar God For Adult Fun’ ad from [I]Which? Songwriter[/I] and settles down to a steady career churning out ‘Honey’ for the honeyz. And KABAM! He becomes Montell Jordan in fake furs. Er, one time.

Awash with Bernard Butler’s guitar grandeur, McAlmont soared, matching the orchestra swoon for croon. ‘Soul’, on the other hand, is a button that people with wobbly gullets press to suffocate their music. So, on his first solo album, McAlmont’s talent is virtually airbrushed out of existence. At best (‘It’s Enough’) ‘A Little Communication’ is One Dove. At its worst (‘The Train’, ‘Happy Hour’) it’s just meaningless words used to differentiate one sub-Boyz II Men effort from another. Christ, you can almost [I]hear[/I] him clicking his fingers and winking. The shame.

Alright then, Dave, what will it take? We can offer you ten minutes with Thom Yorke, a week with Richard from Ultrasound or three years with Smeggo from Regular Fries. Just come back to us, for both our sakes.