I don't think I'm giving away any spoilers or
betraying any confidences when I tell you that Peter Firmani is a club singer.
It's there on the front cover. It's in the back sleeve notes too "Peter found
he could supplement his income by singing in the clubs during his time off. This
was clubland's gain, for Peter got caught up in the warmth of clubland, and it's
rewards". Well ok, but 'Club singer' to me has always been a slightly demeaning
descriptor that refers to someone with talent, but not talent enough to make it
to the 'big time' and so are instead forced to ply their trade wherever there's
an audience willing to pay to hear them sing. It also means that I'm immediately
reminded of Vic Reeves' 'club singer' impression where, in over emoting the
lyric to whatever song he's singing, he mangles the words into meaningless
gobbledegook that barely follows the tune. It's not Peter's fault, but it seems
the man has two strikes against him before he knows I'm even counting.
Fortunately, after giving this a listen, I can report that Firmani's vocal falls well short of Reeves' mugging. After all, as the sleeve notes point out, he's classically trained and so knows how to project a lyric without sounding like he's chewing glue. But although Firmani has what my mother would have called 'a nice voice', it's not a great one. In fact, it's prone to boom with a brashness that's borderline unpleasant on the ear, but as this is album is a one take, warts and all field recording from a cricket club with all the acoustics of a coffin in front of an audience who don't even know it is being recorded, then blame for any shortcomings can't be laid entirely at Firmani's feet. But that's not to say he's entirely blame free either.
That sleeve design gives a clue as to where I'm ultimately going with this; that mug shot framed in none more black projects an aura of doomy sternness the way a freezer gives off cold and it dares the listener not to take this as seriously as Firmani himself is. Because, make no mistake, he really is taking it seriously. The repertoire might be a mixed bag of popular light classics and the more heavy stuff (the old warhorse 'Nessun Dorma' gets another outing), but there's precious little light between the selections and Firmani goes for the throat of each with the same bug eyed intensity and they all climax with a gutbusting, eye popping, neck vein bulging sustained high note finale that, rather anticlimactically, draws polite applause from the audience. Even on 'lighter' numbers like 'Donkey Serenade' and the feminist bothering 'Girls Were Made To Love And Kiss', Firmani sounds more like he's singing for his life than his supper and his overwrought delivery and mock operatic gymnastics has a tension that leaves no room for relaxation and shows that Reeves' parody had more than a grain of truth in it.
Ultimately, there's a aura of desperation hovering over this whole release. Firmani obviously has talent, but to these ears this album is the sound of a man selling himself short. It doesn't work as a showcase for his talent or range, and it's a total mystery to me why anyone would see worth in owning an album of poorly recorded, almost bootleg quality light and popular classics sung in a cricket club in Halifax or why he would want to put his name to it in the first place. All a bit odd to be honest.
Fortunately, after giving this a listen, I can report that Firmani's vocal falls well short of Reeves' mugging. After all, as the sleeve notes point out, he's classically trained and so knows how to project a lyric without sounding like he's chewing glue. But although Firmani has what my mother would have called 'a nice voice', it's not a great one. In fact, it's prone to boom with a brashness that's borderline unpleasant on the ear, but as this is album is a one take, warts and all field recording from a cricket club with all the acoustics of a coffin in front of an audience who don't even know it is being recorded, then blame for any shortcomings can't be laid entirely at Firmani's feet. But that's not to say he's entirely blame free either.
That sleeve design gives a clue as to where I'm ultimately going with this; that mug shot framed in none more black projects an aura of doomy sternness the way a freezer gives off cold and it dares the listener not to take this as seriously as Firmani himself is. Because, make no mistake, he really is taking it seriously. The repertoire might be a mixed bag of popular light classics and the more heavy stuff (the old warhorse 'Nessun Dorma' gets another outing), but there's precious little light between the selections and Firmani goes for the throat of each with the same bug eyed intensity and they all climax with a gutbusting, eye popping, neck vein bulging sustained high note finale that, rather anticlimactically, draws polite applause from the audience. Even on 'lighter' numbers like 'Donkey Serenade' and the feminist bothering 'Girls Were Made To Love And Kiss', Firmani sounds more like he's singing for his life than his supper and his overwrought delivery and mock operatic gymnastics has a tension that leaves no room for relaxation and shows that Reeves' parody had more than a grain of truth in it.
Ultimately, there's a aura of desperation hovering over this whole release. Firmani obviously has talent, but to these ears this album is the sound of a man selling himself short. It doesn't work as a showcase for his talent or range, and it's a total mystery to me why anyone would see worth in owning an album of poorly recorded, almost bootleg quality light and popular classics sung in a cricket club in Halifax or why he would want to put his name to it in the first place. All a bit odd to be honest.
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