You can’t complain about your dressing room or you’ll look like Celine Dion
You can’t complain about your dressing room or you’ll look like Celine Dion.
You can’t complain about your dressing room or you’ll look like Celine Dion.
Even if I did have, you know, a ‘Sports Illustrated’ body, I’d still wear elegant clothes.
People think that I popped out of my mother’s womb singing ‘Chasing Pavements’.
I will not do festivals. The thought of an audience that big frightens the life out of me.
Sometimes my songs wander off a bit and are not always coherent.
I get so nervous on stage I can’t help but talk. I try. I try telling my brain: stop sending words to the mouth. But I get nervous and turn into my grandma. Behind the eyes it’s pure fear. I find it difficult to believe I’m going to be able to deliver.
I don’t want to be a celebrity. I don’t want to be in people’s faces, you know, constantly on covers of magazine that I haven’t even known I’m on.
Americans are always mortified when I tell them this, but in England, it’s a tradition to put your plaques and photographs and awards and gold records and stuff in your bathroom. I don’t know why.
It’s warts and all in my songs, and I think that’s why people can relate to them.
I was about to meet Beyonce, and I had a full-blown anxiety attack. Then she popped in looking gorgeous, and said, ‘You’re amazing! When I listen to you I feel like I’m listening to God.’