The Canadian crooner has sold 75m records, but says he’ll never be cool. Not that he’s fussed. He discusses loneliness, love and the joy of live shows
It was a Tuesday night in the packed O2 arena; later, Michael Bublé would pretend to think it was a Saturday and ask the audience to join him in thinking that – and we were all good for it. But he was yet to come on, a timer projected on to a billowing canopy showed 90 seconds, and a massive, as-yet invisible orchestra was playing some ominous strings. It reminded me of something the composer of the Succession theme said: “How can I make this feel as if something’s wrong?”
That was exactly the sound he was going for, he told me the next day in the Café Royal, possibly the plushest hotel suite I’ve ever laid eyes on, let alone been allowed inside. “I said to [composer and arranger] Nicholas Jacobson-Larson, I need you to build an earthquake. I want people to think perhaps there’s something wrong.” But there’s nothing wrong, people. Michael’s arrived on stage. He’s singing Feeling Good with the gusto of a man who believes he’s speaking for every one of the 15,000-strong crowd, and really, who wouldn’t be? With his trademark tight black suit, a shtick that alternates between Puck and Lothario, a load of sweet, self-deprecating, easy wit, a total disregard for whether he’s cool or not, he puts you in a good mood – he cannot help it.
