One Chance (2 page)

The last major singing I had done was in the role of Chevalier des Grieux in Puccini's
Manon Lescaut
for Southgate Opera, an amateur company based in North London. For that kind of performance, I was playing a role: I was des Grieux, or Radames, or whatever part I was playing. I could hide behind the costume of the General of the Imperial Guard of Egypt, fighting for the love of Aida and Egypt at the same time. Now I was about to sing as myself, and I felt naked. I was going on as Paul Potts, and soon I would learn whether I was worthy of a place on stage.

I still didn't know whether I would have to sing a cappella, as I had witnessed on other talent shows like
The X Factor
and
American Idol
. I had watched the early rounds of those shows and dreaded being one of the performers viewers laughed at. I had brought my backing-track disc in the hope that I would be able to use it, but was prepared for the worst—that I might have to sing with no music to accompany me.

A member of the stage crew asked me if I was okay.

“I'd feel much better if I could use my backing track,” I explained.

“Do you have it with you?” he asked.

I pulled it out of my jacket pocket and said, “It's track number eight. Thank you very much.” I was hugely relieved, because performing a cappella is one of the things that frightens me most.

The crew member took my CD and told me I'd be next on after a dancer and her partner. I watched from the side as they went on stage and did their audition. The lady danced with a pashmina scarf while the man performed birdsong by whistle. It didn't go down well.

“Off! Off! Off!” the crowd screamed, baying for blood.

I was petrified. The prospect of going out in front of a crowd shouting for me to leave was something that frightened the living daylights out of me. What have I let myself in for? I asked myself. But there was no time to think about that, as the couple was dismissed from the stage and I was told that my time had come.

I walked out. “Shuffled out,” as Simon would later put it. I seriously considered just running out the other side. Would that have been any sillier than performing? My mind was still debating that when Amanda spoke.

“What are you here for today, Paul?”

My legs were shaking as I answered, “To sing opera.”

“Ready when you are,” Simon said, motioning for me to start.

I gave a loud sigh. This was it: I had no choice now but to stay and sing. I nodded towards the wings for the crew member to press play on my backing track.

The music began. I tried to settle myself, but my legs were like jelly. I looked directly at Simon, Piers, and Amanda, hoping against hope they would like my performance. Because of the dazzling stage lights I couldn't really see them very clearly, which only added to my nerves. I decided to try and ignore the judges completely and treat it as a performance rather than an audition. As I began singing the first few phrases, I couldn't help thinking this might be the last time I would ever perform. I found myself putting more emotion into the aria. When I got to the famous musical phrase that is repeated later as “
Dilegua, o notte
” in “Nessun Dorma” for the first time, I could hear the audience reacting to my performance with applause and cheers. I ignored the sound and did my best to stay focused and put everything into what I genuinely believed was going to be my swan song.

The music reached the section in the aria where the female chorus comes in, and I knew the big climax was on its way. I threw body and soul into it, determined to really nail the high B natural that comes at the end. Generally for me, the high B is the easier of the last two notes to sing. The vowel shape is one that I felt on previous practise to be more friendly than the more closed “rawh” of the last high A. On reaching the B, however, I was horrified. I had put so much into it that I had ended up with too much tension in my voice. The note didn't come out the way I would have liked.

I finished my audition bitterly disappointed. I felt that my very last performance had been an underachievement. This was despite the fact that the audience were now on their feet. It was apparent that they had enjoyed what they heard, but I felt it was inevitable that the judges would know I had messed it up. I had let myself down at the most crucial part of the aria, and I didn't particularly want to hear what Simon had to say. He was bound to hate it because I had messed up the note that everyone remembers. I waited for his response, but the one I got was not the one I was anticipating.

“So you work in Carphone Warehouse, and you did that. I wasn't expecting that at all. This was a complete breath of fresh air. I thought you were absolutely fantastic.”

He did have reservations, though. He told me that I had shuffled on stage like I was apologising for being there, I looked terrible. And the suit I was wearing was too big for me. (I neglected to mention to him that although the sleeves were indeed too long, I had no hope of actually doing up the buttons on the jacket!)

“I don't care if you come on naked if you sing like that!” interrupted Piers. “You have an incredible voice.” And to my huge surprise, he added, “If you keep singing like that, you're going to be one of the favourites to win the whole competition.”

Next it was Amanda's turn. “I think . . . that we've got a case of a little lump of coal here that is going to turn into a diamond.”

It was difficult to take in what I was hearing. I wasn't expecting anything positive to come out of this, yet they liked my voice. Before I had a chance to get my head round the compliments, it was time for the judges to vote.

“Okay,” Simon said. “Moment of truth, young man.” He looked across to his fellow judges.

“Absolutely yes,” said Piers.

“Amanda?” asked Simon.

“Yes.” Amanda nodded.

“Paul”—Simon looked at me with a smile—“you are through to the next round.”

As the audience cheered, I was in complete shock. I had arrived at the audition expecting this performance to be my last, so getting through to the next stage was a huge surprise for me. Instead of my singing career coming to a close, I was about to embark on a musical journey that would change my life forever.

PART ONE

Beginnings

CHAPTER ONE

Childhood

“R
ACE YOU
!”

It was a warm, sunny summer's day in my home town of Bristol, and my mother had taken my older brother, John, and me to Vassals Park for a treat. Vassals Park, or Oldbury Court Estate, was one of the best green spaces in the city. It had history, being old enough to be mentioned in the Domesday Book, but as a young boy I didn't care about any of that. I just wanted to run about and have fun.

As soon as we arrived, John and I ran over to the play area. There were swings, a sand pit, and an early form of treadmill: two wooden drums on a spindle with a set of metal pipes alongside.

“Bet you can't go as fast as me,” John boasted as we took turns. We carried on running while Mum sat on a bench watching us, getting on with her knitting. We played on that treadmill for ages (perhaps that's why both John and I became interested in running later on) before Mum decided it was time to go.

“Does anyone fancy an ice cream?” she asked, knowing this was the best way to get us to move.

This was turning out to be a great afternoon. We bought our ice creams from the resident van and ate them hungrily as we walked the long way home. We rarely went back the same way we got to the park—a habit I still follow. The three of us would walk through the whole of Oldbury Court Estate, pausing from time to time to play in the River Frome. We reached Snuff Mills and had a look at the old mill wheel. There was a café there, where sometimes we'd get our ice creams. The owners knew us and would sometimes give us a few extra sweets on top. The walk ensured that we got to experience the river; the feel of the waterfall always made us feel cool, and the force of it was awe inspiring.

We walked on, climbing back up Blackberry Hill, which felt enormous when you had short legs. By now the heat was getting to me, and I was gasping for thirst.

“Can we stop at the shop and get something to drink?” I asked.

Mum shook her head. “No, Paul, we've got pop back at home.”

The thought of pop to drink back at the house briefly got John and me excited.

“Council pop,” Mum corrected.

I sighed in disappointment. “Council pop” was of course tap water.

I was born and grew up in Bristol, and have always felt lucky to have done so. Bristol is a fantastic city. It has always been a vibrant and exciting place to live, and boasts its own musical and cultural identity. With Wales just across the Severn Bridge,
the Forest of Dean to the north, and the holiday resorts of Devon and Cornwall a short drive to the south, it is perfectly situated to enjoy some of Britain's most beautiful countryside. As with many large British cities in the 1970s and 1980s, it had its share of problems, but that never took away from what made it a special place.

My family lived in the Fishponds area of Bristol. We lived in a Victorian terraced house, which wasn't small but not exactly big, either, for a large family like ours. I am the second oldest of four children: John is the oldest, then it's me and the twins, Tony and Jane. I could describe us as living from hand to mouth, and perhaps by today's standards we were, but we had the basics.

Were we poor? It depends what you measure it against. We were fed, watered, and clothed, and in reality there isn't much you can ask for apart from that. Our clothes were rarely brand new, unless a school uniform grant was provided for their purchase. When we had a television, it was rented from Radio Rentals.

Dad did many different jobs, all of them manual labour, which paid only just about enough. Mum did some work from home, knitting jumpers and gloves to order. Every little bit helps, as the saying goes.

Mum came from a coal-mining community in South Wales called Abertillery. Strangely enough, Julz's dad lived a few streets behind her, and Julz's grandfather and my maternal grandfather both worked in the same pit together. We always enjoyed going to see Nanny Beat (short for Beatrice) and Grandcha, as we called our grandfather. Grandcha could be a little mischievous sometimes: he once offered my older brother a pound if he
would cut the grass—a lot of money for a small boy back then. When John said yes, he handed him a very rusty pair of shears for him to work with. It was just as well that John was resourceful from an early age.

We saw signs for the M4 motorway to South Wales very frequently as we walked round Bristol, and longed for our next trip there. It wasn't that our grandparents spoiled us with material things; it was more because they, and my grandcha in particular, doted on their grandchildren. Grandcha once made the trip to Bristol by himself without telling Nanny Beat where he was going, just so he could see us. That involved quite a difficult journey by bus, including several changes along the way. He got into trouble with Nanny because he left without telling her where he was going, but he didn't care. He just wanted to see his grandchildren.

As with my grandparents, there was a definite power balance in our own house, but in this case the power was on the man's side. Mum was, and has always been, the mild-mannered, quiet, hard-working sort of person who got on with her life with few complaints. Dad, by contrast, was the disciplinarian. On the whole, we were all well behaved, but there were times when we wouldn't listen and we'd hear the immortal words, “Wait 'til your father gets home!” That usually got the desired effect.

As is often the case, my siblings and I were quite different from each other. My older brother was born just over a year before me, while Tony and Jane, the twins, were born just under two years later. These differences became apparent as we got older. John had the gift of the gab. He always seemed to
know what to say and what to do. When he got to school, he knew exactly how to deal with the strong characters on the playground. I, by contrast, didn't have a clue.

I wasn't a bad kid, but often I seemed to find myself getting into scrapes, especially when I was with Alex, one of my early friends. Alex was about the same age as me, with red hair and prominent freckles that really stood out in the summer. He was perhaps not the greatest of influences, and whenever we hung out, we'd egg each other on to see what we could get away with. More often than not, we ended up getting into mischief.

One day after school, Alex and I were playing at the bottom of the street. At the end of my road there was a filling station, and while we were messing about I noticed the safety shut-off switch at the back of the yard.

“Go on,” I said. “I dare you to push the switch.”

“Why?” Alex replied. “Are you too scared to push it yourself?”

We looked at each other to see who would be brave enough to push the switch to the pumps off position. After a delay, I took the plunge. Since I wasn't the tallest of children, I had to scramble up a wall to reach it. Even then it was harder than it looked, but I managed to push it up with both hands.

Somehow, I got away with it. No one had spotted us, and Alex and I went over to watch the bemused looks as drivers filling up their cars found their pumps had stopped operating. As the chaos unfolded, we chickened out and made a run for it before anyone saw us. Which was probably just as well: Mum worked in the garage as a part-time cleaner, and I'd have been in for it if I'd been caught.