In the space of a few days, My Scarlett Johansson post has become the subject of a round of Bloggese Whispers.
First, Clive Davis linked to my “review” on his Spectator blog. One of God’s little jokes is that Clive Davis, London Times music critic, shares his name with Clive Davis, US record producer, executive, and TV talent show judge. To his credit, the Clive I know spends too much of his (often transatlantic) professional life explaining to people that he isn’t the Clive Davis a million aspiring Mariah Careys want to get to know better. (Men, ask yourself honestly what you would do if desperate young women kept mistaking you for someone who could get them a recording contract?)
Secondly, and unfortunately, my original comment about Johansson’s singing, which was embedded in praise for her other artistic endeavours, has now been attributed by another blogger—not just to Clive Davis the journalist, who was quoting me, remember—but, via another step in the chain, to Clive Davis the mogul, who has nothing whatsoever to do with this. How long before the World reads on the front page of The National Enquirer?:
“TOP RECORD PRODUCER: SCARLETT SINGS LIKE A DOG.”