Ed Sheeran could have played it safe and done a repeat run of his mega-selling last album but that's not what this is
Has recent pop music offered a more startling example of an artist playing against type than Sing, the No 1 single that introduces us to the profoundly unlikely figure of Ed Sheeran, priapic sex machine? Sheeran, as you can scarcely have failed to notice, has spent the last three years selling an astonishing number of records: his new album finds itself being launched into a chart that its predecessor still shows no signs of vacating, 144 weeks after its release. As he would be the first to admit, his appeal is predicated on a certain wholesomeness. His acoustic guitar is held to be a bulwark against the Auto-Tuned artifice of modern pop. His fanbase was built via tireless hard work round the nation's pubs and clubs. His songs offer melancholy depictions of young love or earnest ruminations on teen pregnancy and leaving home. And his image is that of the resoundingly good bloke-next-door, calm and conciliatory in the face of bad reviews, ever willing to play a gig for the Girl Guides Association. No matter how cosmopolitan his success becomes multiplatinum in Australia, three nights sold out at Madison Square Gardens something of his hometown of Framlingham seems to cling to him.
And yet, on Sing, we find him palling around with Pharrell Williams, swigging tequila and attempting to sweet-talk a young lady into slaking his fell desires: what appears to be on offer is 48 hours of no-strings attached humping, interspersed with short breaks for booze and drugs, before Sheeran heads back on the road.
Continue reading... Reported by guardian.co.uk 14 hours ago.
Has recent pop music offered a more startling example of an artist playing against type than Sing, the No 1 single that introduces us to the profoundly unlikely figure of Ed Sheeran, priapic sex machine? Sheeran, as you can scarcely have failed to notice, has spent the last three years selling an astonishing number of records: his new album finds itself being launched into a chart that its predecessor still shows no signs of vacating, 144 weeks after its release. As he would be the first to admit, his appeal is predicated on a certain wholesomeness. His acoustic guitar is held to be a bulwark against the Auto-Tuned artifice of modern pop. His fanbase was built via tireless hard work round the nation's pubs and clubs. His songs offer melancholy depictions of young love or earnest ruminations on teen pregnancy and leaving home. And his image is that of the resoundingly good bloke-next-door, calm and conciliatory in the face of bad reviews, ever willing to play a gig for the Girl Guides Association. No matter how cosmopolitan his success becomes multiplatinum in Australia, three nights sold out at Madison Square Gardens something of his hometown of Framlingham seems to cling to him.
And yet, on Sing, we find him palling around with Pharrell Williams, swigging tequila and attempting to sweet-talk a young lady into slaking his fell desires: what appears to be on offer is 48 hours of no-strings attached humping, interspersed with short breaks for booze and drugs, before Sheeran heads back on the road.
Continue reading... Reported by guardian.co.uk 14 hours ago.