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A crack team of co-writers has been assembled: his collaborators have variously worked with Britney Spears, Dr Dre, Robbie Williams, and - rather more pertinently, cynics might suggest - Daniel O'Donnell and James Last. As befits a former military man, All the Lost Souls is a model of ruthless efficiency. Still, not even his loudest detractors could call him sloppy. Or perhaps his detractors are right and it doesn't mean anything. Perhaps he's substituted the letter t with p for reasons of probity: this is, after all, an artist beloved of censorious Middle England. "Won't you give me some love?" he sings, adding bafflingly: "I've taken shipload of drugs." Perhaps a shipload is like a shitload, only bigger, evocative of the vast container vessels that sail the world's seas. It seems to have brought on a debilitating attack of dyslexia. Nevertheless, Give Me Some Love offers further evidence of the effect the opprobrium has had on the singer. In the admittedly unlikely event that Back to Bedlam's follow-up contained a cover of Boney M's Hooray! Hooray! It's A Holi-Holiday!, he'd tremulously warble that as well. Live, he has tremulously warbled the Pixies' visceral Where Is My Mind? and tremulously warbled Supertramp's jaunty Breakfast in America. The tremulous warble replete with pregnant pauses is his default vocal setting. But then James Blunt sings everything like that. He certainly sounds upset: he sings Give Me Some Love in a tremulous warble, replete with pregnant pauses, suggestive of brimming eyes and quivering lips.
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It's difficult to know how upset Blunt is by the adverse reaction to his success. "Me and my guitar play my way," he wails, midway through Back to Bedlam's follow-up, on a song called Give Me Some Love. But despite the rarefied lifestyle, news has clearly reached Blunt that a lot of people seem to hate both him and his music. If you believe the gossip columns, his life seems to primarily consist of getting his aristocratic leg over with celebrity hotties: Lindsay Lohan, Paris Hilton, Mischa Barton, Tara Palmer-Tomkinson and a Pussycat Doll, names that rather suggest intellectual profundity may not be uppermost in the former Household Cavlary officer's check-list of feminine prerequisites. Two years into his recording career, he lives in an Ibizan mansion with a nightclub in its basement, paid for with the proceeds of the biggest-selling album of the 21st century thus far: his debut, Back to Bedlam, has shifted 14m copies. You would be forgiven for assuming such a fate had befallen James Blunt. Fame and wealth removes them from the real world, insulating them from public opinion. V ast success traditionally has an alienating effect on rock stars.