PAOLO NUTINI—SHAKEN NOT STIRRED
BY LEN SOUSA
When An Interview Falls Through And A Writer Is Left To His Own Devices
Scottish singer-songwriter Paolo Nutini sips his tea with bemused interest, gazing through the window of his roving tour bus like a Shawnee chief eagerly awaiting the spring thaw—or at least I imagine he does. For after three months of trying, I’ve yet to hear back from Nutini about doing an interview. Calls were made, questions forwarded, but nary an answer received. Perhaps he was scared off by the desperate tone of my last missive, which read in part: “Send me a shopping list and I’ll make a story out of it!”
But all remained quiet on the Nutini front. As tempting as it first seemed, Skope’s legal department tells me I can’t simply make the interview up or piece it together from random quotes taken out of context. “But that’s how yellow journalism works,” I remind them. “Remember the Maine?” They hang up. (John Grisham is right—lawyers are a sensitive bunch.)
Though Nutini’s publicist insists he’s been busy—an idea supported by his recent appearance on The Tonight Show—I suspect (secretly hope) the answer is much more sordid. It certainly makes for better copy. So I start digging, reading every article I find on the nascent minstrel, and trying to uncover as much as I can.
Nutini was born in Paisley, Scotland to working class parents who own a local fish ‘n’ chips shop (he confesses he worked at “the chippy” himself). Eventually, the fledgling songwriter convinced his parents to let him drop out of school and become a roadie for pop rockers Speedway. He spent the next three years selling t-shirts, occasionally performing live, and helping out in a Glasgow studio. Spotted by late Atlantic Records founder Ahmet Ertegun while playing a one-off gig in 2003, Nutini unexpectedly found himself with a manager and a record deal by the time he was 18.
Now if this story were any more of a cliché—and if it weren’t for the lawyers—I might be accused of making it up. But it’s very much true. Watching Nutini in a press video, the singer comes across as self-assured if still in awe of his own sudden success. His Scots accent is thick, like something out of Trainspotting (he pronounces “like” as “lake”), and his songs have a knackered Nick Drake quality.
His debut album, These Streets, released Stateside this past January, is a ten-track trip through the three adolescent muses: sex, booze, and, well, sex. Not that Nutini doesn’t put his own clever spin on each. After all, Ertegun was the same man who signed Ray Charles, Led Zeppelin, and The Rolling Stones to Atlantic.
Much like his famed label mates, Nutini seems to have a bit of a wild streak. Barely 20, he enjoys good spirits like an optimist on speed. After last year’s SXSW Festival, the wunderkind was buzzed and wandered into a tattoo parlor, walking out with three Lone Star beer logos on his right arm. As he later told Top Of The Pops, “ It was sort of half-planned. I was a little drunk and I sort of ran out of money half-way through, so I only managed to get the three, whereas I wanted them to go round my forearm.”
Another morsel comes in the April 2007 issue of Esquire. On page 114 is a photo of Nutini, glancing with a “What, Me Worry?” look, as the headline votes him “Best Potential Train Wreck Of 2007.” In addition to the Texas tattoo story, the magazine mentions the singer was seen “hurling his liquid breakfast backstage” at the Austin City Limits Festival. Then, during a New Year’s performance in Edinburgh, Nutini was again spotted drunk, slurring his words and even falling off stage.
So could this be the reason for Nutini’s lack of response? Is he holed up in some pub now, defying the bartender to concoct a drink that’ll make him “proper pissed” or perhaps recovering from another night of binging? The lawyers tell me this as far as I should go with my unsupported assumptions. Still, I say we forgive Paolo for his (alleged) wayward habits. As recent history shows, you’re only young and famous for so long before inevitably going batty. If Nutini wants to spend the limelight as sauced as a baby back rib—to paraphrase that princess of poor PR, Britney Spears—it’s his prerogative. Though he might want to steer clear of any more tattoo parlors.
Originally Published:
Skope Magazine (Jul/Aug 2007)
