He’s a tramp 

Dear Michael Bublé,

I love you. No, seriously, I like, really, really love you.

Your cornflower-blue eyes. Your soft schoolboy pout. Your voice like warm, sweet honey that makes my knees buckle.

Seriously, I fucking love you. And I don't even care that you're Canadian. And when we get married, I'll even change my last name to Bublé, even though it sounds like boob-lay. That's how much I love you.

Singers these days don't sing anymore; they just convulse and howl like an epileptic auctioneer; and when they do sing, it's stuff like, "I like your pants around your feet; I like the dirt that's on your knees."

But you, Michael, you're different. They say you're the modern-day Sinatra (but without all the heavy drinking and mob connections, right?), that you've restored the art of crooning. In an age when young women are accustomed to being addressed in song as bitches and hos, you've brought us back to an era when romance was an art form. You've assembled an amazing backing band, and your covers of classics are unbelievable, sultry. I never thought someone could reimagine Nina Simone's "Feeling Good" into something even more seductive, or that you could show up Van Morrison with your drop-dead sexy rendition of "Moondance." Not to mention your irresistibly catchy big swingin' version of the Spider-Man theme song. It's enough to make me forget that whole Starbucks commercial thing.

Sure, some critics say you're naught but a poor imitation of the real thing, like Brian Williams is to Peter Jennings. Or that your classic covers are brilliant, but your original songs are ... lame. But they're just soulless bitter bastards, right?

But Michael, oh, Michael, why won't you return my phone calls? Your publicist says that you're not granting any interviews for this tour, which seems pretty fucking cocky to me ... but then again, that's part of your plan, isn't it? That's what Sinatra would've done, right? Fuck the press, I don't have time for them — I'm Michael fuckin' Bublé.


Saturday, April 15, at the Fox Theatre, 2211 Woodward Ave., Detroit; 313-471-6611.

Sarah Klein is Metro Times culture editor. Send comments to sklein@metrotimes.com

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