10 Most Spectacularly Embarrassing Mistakes In Music

5. Johnny Borrell Plumbs New Depths

Borrell It is a weird world that one-time Libertine and full-time prat John Edward Borrell inhabits. Seemingly unrestrained by dignity, self-awareness and likability, Borrell has carved a niche for himself in the British music scene as the eternal sad clown-always eager to please, always snickered at behind his back. Though the equine buffoon does largely bring this upon himself, his most embarrassing moment was brought about by hubris rather than actions. It isn't easy to pinpoint an exact moment when Johnny became so widely disliked, as it has been an entirely organic process. He shot to fame with a mesmeric appearance on Parkinson in 2004, playing Golden Touch with a full choir. Since that performance, and the fantastic debut album Up All Night, Borrell hasn't so much repeatedly shot himself in the foot as blown his entire leg off. Whether referring to half of his band as 'The Swedes', favourably comparing his lyrics to Dylan's or having a punch-up in a bar with the man who wrote his most popular song, America, Borrell has become less famous for his music than for pratfalls and career suicide. His appearance on-stage at the finale of Live 8 in 2005 was simply ghastly, with his preening away and making sure the focus was entirely upon him and his ludicrous white suit. The man would kick his granny down the stairs and then drag her back up by her ankles for more to get a hit. How satisfying then, that his post-Razorlight career was stillborn upon the release of Borrell 1. Seemingly named in order to gain comparisons to Scott Walker's early solo output, the record itself, like most of Razorlight's catalogue, is decent fare with the odd moment of beauty. The public obviously found it hard to separate his personality from the music, resulting in dismal first week sales of 594 copies. 594. Say it again-594. By coincidence, this is the same number of times I have wished in a single hour that Borrell would pull a skid on that ridiculous Vespa of his and disappear up his own backside front wheel first.
 
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I am a freelance writer, currently residing in Newcastle Upon Tyne, England. I was raised by wolves in the woodlands of Northumberland, but am still posher than Colin Firth having dinner with The Queen. I write all of my pieces by swallowing a cocktail of scrabble tiles and vodka, then regurgitating them over my jotter. Hope this explains the typos.