by Paul Potts
One Chance
One Chance
A Memoir
PAUL POTTS
WEINSTEIN
BOOKS
Copyright © 2013 by Paul Potts
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I’d like to dedicate this book to Julz,
my long-suffering wife, without whom I’d be lost.
CONTENTS
FOREWORD: By Simon Cowell
PROLOGUE: What a Difference a Day Makes
PART ONE: Beginnings
CHAPTER ONE: Childhood
CHAPTER TWO: School
CHAPTER THREE: Singing
CHAPTER FOUR: Secondary School Life
CHAPTER FIVE: Singing through the Pain
PART TWO: Struggles
CHAPTER SIX: Off to University
CHAPTER SEVEN: Unexpected Opportunities
CHAPTER EIGHT: Singing Abroad
CHAPTER NINE: Looking for Love
CHAPTER TEN: An Opera and an Op
CHAPTER ELEVEN: In Sickness and in Health
PART THREE: Success
CHAPTER TWELVE: Britain’s Got Talent
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: On Record
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: On the Road
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: On Reflection
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
FOREWORD
By Simon Cowell
I HAVE SAT THROUGH a lot of auditions through the last decade, some good and a lot not so good! But there are a few auditions I will always remember for special reasons, and one of those is Paul Potts’s.
It was the first season on Britain’s Got Talent, back in 2007. The auditions weren’t going great and I was genuinely worried whether we were going to find a star. We arrived in Cardiff and the day was not going very well but I remember a shy man in a funny suit walking onto the stage. I looked over to Piers, Piers rolled his eyes as Paul quietly told us he was an opera singer, then I rolled my eyes! Then he started to sing. I will never forget that moment—the atmosphere in the theatre changed in an instant, he literally raised the roof, and I knew our show was safe.
Over time I got to know Paul as a person and I got to know his other qualities. Paul has real courage; he overcame the bullying of his childhood as well as the many other obstacles life had thrown his way. Paul also has such dedication; he is someone who was always going to work hard to achieve his dream of a singing career.
Paul’s road to success reads like a film script, and now it has been turned into a movie. This couldn’t happen to a nicer guy; he is genuinely one of the warmest, friendliest guys I have had the pleasure of working with. I am delighted and proud that we were able to give him that original chance, but everything else has been down to him.
PROLOGUE
What a Difference a Day Makes
I WILL NEVER FORGET that fateful day. That dull, wet Saturday morning on St. Patrick’s Day in 2007 when I arrived at the Millennium Centre in Cardiff to audition for Britain’s Got Talent.
My father was panicking that my wife, Julz, and I would be late. The audition was the same day as a Wales-England rugby match, and having set off from our home in Port Talbot, we hit the traffic just outside Llantrisant, about fourteen miles from Cardiff. My phone began vibrating in my pocket. I looked at the screen, and it was Dad, who was already at the venue.
“The people are already going in!” he said, with an audible scowl.
“Stop worrying,” I said. “They’re probably contestants from an earlier round of auditions.”
But however much I tried to reassure him, I couldn’t calm his nerves. He kept on calling me as we made our way up the M4.
I had been strangely subdued on the drive up, but once I reached the concert hall, all that changed. We still had some time to wait before I was sent to the holding area, and having no clue what time I would be going on, I was beginning to get quite nervous. I picked up my number from the check-in area—31829, which I stuck sideways on my jacket—and made my way up the stairs to the auditorium. The holding area was a bar behind the upper circle, and it was a very busy room, with hundreds of people scrambling round for seats and plenty of film crews to capture every moment of rehearsal on tape. Through the walls we could hear the proceedings of the previous group: the noise of the audience rippled through, as did the sound of the dreaded buzzer. That silenced the crowd in the holding room immediately. It was something none of us wanted to hear when it was our turn to be on stage.
I’d read advice online from previous contestants, who suggested you should make as much noise as possible, dress wildly, and practise hard to make sure you ended up on film. In fact, to do just about anything to stand out from the crowd. But that was the last thing I wanted to do. While others were rehearsing loudly to catch the attention of the cameras, I attempted to fade into the background like a wallflower.
I wasn’t here to make a career out of what I was about to do. Instead, I was here to finish a journey that had started at the age of six. Singing was something I loved doing, but I could see no future in it.
“Hi there, can I ask what you’re here to do?”
My thoughts were interrupted by a guy in a pale-blue fleece coat from the production team and his colleague holding a TV camera. It’s strange that a previously coherent person can become a jabbering wreck when facing a large piece of electronics placed on someone’s shoulder. It took me some time to pluck up the courage to even say a very weak “hello.” It was right about then that I started to have second thoughts about being there.
I didn’t really know what to say, and ended up blurting out the first thing that came into my head.
“I’m here to sing opera,” I told the guy. “It’s something I feel I was born to do.”
“That’s great,” the guy replied. “How about singing something for us here and now, a cappella?”
I responded with a very nervous look towards Julz, and a very fast shake of the head. “I don’t want to do that,” I said.
I wanted to go back to being the wallflower. I felt I wasn’t the kind of person who should be in front of people, in full view. I felt fat and slightly scruffy. The suit I was wearing was all I could afford, and for some reason I had insisted on buying one that was too small in the chest but at the same time too long in the arms. The last thing I wanted to do was draw further attention to the fact that I didn’t really belong here. Reluctantly, the member of the production crew accepted my refusal to sing. He finished our quick chat and moved on to another person.
I tried and failed to find out when I would be on stage. This was disconcerting, as I always like to be well prepared so as to perform at my best. But now I wa
s faced with no warm-up area, no sound check, and no timetable. I did my best to try to find somewhere private enough to warm up, and ended up in the gents’ toilets. Even there, I didn’t want to sing in front of anyone. The moment I heard footsteps approaching, I pushed the lever of the tap as if to wash my hands. There appeared to be no way of warming up at all. After a while, I just gave up and returned to my seat next to Julz.
A different member of the production approached me, this time from ITV2, ITV’s second channel. He was filming for the spin-off show to Britain’s Got Talent: Britain’s Got More Talent. This guy was very relaxed and funny, and asked me to go with him. I was a little reluctant, but Julz persuaded me.
“Go on, Paul,” she whispered. “Just for once do as you’re told!”
Julz and I share a very healthy sense of humour, in spite of having gone through some pretty difficult times. So I followed her command and walked out with the crew. Initially they wanted me to sing in the corridor surrounded by lots of people. But when they noticed my reticence, they changed tack and suggested we go outside.
Luckily the rain had stopped and there weren’t too many people around. With the wind blowing, I launched into the last full phrase of “Nessun Dorma,” the aria made famous by the great Luciano Pavarotti, and which was used as the theme for the 1990 World Cup:
Dilegua, o notte! Tramontate, stelle! Tramontate, stelle!
All’alba vincerò! Vincerò! Vince-e-erò!
I just about felt okay doing it. However, while I was filming outside with the Britain’s Got More Talent crew, the three Britain’s Got Talent judges—Simon Cowell, Amanda Holden, and Piers Morgan—were giving a briefing to all the other contestants about what was about to happen. Not only had I missed that, but my name had been called as one of the first contestants to go on. I got upstairs with the crew and there was Dad again, panicking about the fact that my name had been called. There wasn’t a moment to spare—it was time to go.
Backstage, I felt like Daniel about to be thrown into the lion’s den. I hadn’t warmed up properly, and now I was being unexpectedly thrust straight in, not knowing what was going to happen. What had started as a day out—and an opportunity to perform at Wales’s latest, and arguably greatest, concert hall—was turning into the worst kind of nightmare.
I wasn’t built for risks. I just didn’t take them. I had never even bet on the Grand National or Derby, and now I was about to perform in front of two thousand people, including one of the people in the music business I respected most: Simon Cowell. I would have been nervous enough if I’d just come fresh from a run as principal tenor with a local company. But I was about to go on stage, having barely sung a note in public for nearly four years.
The last major singing I had done was in the role of Chevalier des Grieux in Puccini’s Manon Lescaut for Southgate Opera, an amateur company based in North London. For that kind of performance, I was playing a role: I was des Grieux, or Radames, or whatever part I was playing. I could hide behind the costume of the General of the Imperial Guard of Egypt, fighting for the love of Aida and Egypt at the same time. Now I was about to sing as myself, and I felt naked. I was going on as Paul Potts, and soon I would learn whether I was worthy of a place on stage.
I still didn’t know whether I would have to sing a cappella, as I had witnessed on other talent shows like The X Factor and American Idol. I had watched the early rounds of those shows and dreaded being one of the performers viewers laughed at. I had brought my backing-track disc in the hope that I would be able to use it, but was prepared for the worst—that I might have to sing with no music to accompany me.
A member of the stage crew asked me if I was okay.
“I’d feel much better if I could use my backing track,” I explained.
“Do you have it with you?” he asked.
I pulled it out of my jacket pocket and said, “It’s track number eight. Thank you very much.” I was hugely relieved, because performing a cappella is one of the things that frightens me most.
The crew member took my CD and told me I’d be next on after a dancer and her partner. I watched from the side as they went on stage and did their audition. The lady danced with a pashmina scarf while the man performed birdsong by whistle. It didn’t go down well.
“Off! Off! Off!” the crowd screamed, baying for blood.
I was petrified. The prospect of going out in front of a crowd shouting for me to leave was something that frightened the living daylights out of me. What have I let myself in for? I asked myself. But there was no time to think about that, as the couple was dismissed from the stage and I was told that my time had come.
I walked out. “Shuffled out,” as Simon would later put it. I seriously considered just running out the other side. Would that have been any sillier than performing? My mind was still debating that when Amanda spoke.
“What are you here for today, Paul?”
My legs were shaking as I answered, “To sing opera.”
“Ready when you are,” Simon said, motioning for me to start.
I gave a loud sigh. This was it: I had no choice now but to stay and sing. I nodded towards the wings for the crew member to press play on my backing track.
The music began. I tried to settle myself, but my legs were like jelly. I looked directly at Simon, Piers, and Amanda, hoping against hope they would like my performance. Because of the dazzling stage lights I couldn’t really see them very clearly, which only added to my nerves. I decided to try and ignore the judges completely and treat it as a performance rather than an audition. As I began singing the first few phrases, I couldn’t help thinking this might be the last time I would ever perform. I found myself putting more emotion into the aria. When I got to the famous musical phrase that is repeated later as “Dilegua, o notte” in “Nessun Dorma” for the first time, I could hear the audience reacting to my performance with applause and cheers. I ignored the sound and did my best to stay focused and put everything into what I genuinely believed was going to be my swan song.
The music reached the section in the aria where the female chorus comes in, and I knew the big climax was on its way. I threw body and soul into it, determined to really nail the high B natural that comes at the end. Generally for me, the high B is the easier of the last two notes to sing. The vowel shape is one that I felt on previous practise to be more friendly than the more closed “rawh” of the last high A. On reaching the B, however, I was horrified. I had put so much into it that I had ended up with too much tension in my voice. The note didn’t come out the way I would have liked.
I finished my audition bitterly disappointed. I felt that my very last performance had been an underachievement. This was despite the fact that the audience were now on their feet. It was apparent that they had enjoyed what they heard, but I felt it was inevitable that the judges would know I had messed it up. I had let myself down at the most crucial part of the aria, and I didn’t particularly want to hear what Simon had to say. He was bound to hate it because I had messed up the note that everyone remembers. I waited for his response, but the one I got was not the one I was anticipating.
“So you work in Carphone Warehouse, and you did that. I wasn’t expecting that at all. This was a complete breath of fresh air. I thought you were absolutely fantastic.”
He did have reservations, though. He told me that I had shuffled on stage like I was apologising for being there, I looked terrible. And the suit I was wearing was too big for me. (I neglected to mention to him that although the sleeves were indeed too long, I had no hope of actually doing up the buttons on the jacket!)
“I don’t care if you come on naked if you sing like that!” interrupted Piers. “You have an incredible voice.” And to my huge surprise, he added, “If you keep singing like that, you’re going to be one of the favourites to win the whole competition.”
Next it was Amanda’s turn. “I think . . . that we’ve got a case of a little lump of coal here that is going to turn into a diamond.”
; It was difficult to take in what I was hearing. I wasn’t expecting anything positive to come out of this, yet they liked my voice. Before I had a chance to get my head round the compliments, it was time for the judges to vote.
“Okay,” Simon said. “Moment of truth, young man.” He looked across to his fellow judges.
“Absolutely yes,” said Piers.
“Amanda?” asked Simon.
“Yes.” Amanda nodded.
“Paul”—Simon looked at me with a smile—“you are through to the next round.”
As the audience cheered, I was in complete shock. I had arrived at the audition expecting this performance to be my last, so getting through to the next stage was a huge surprise for me. Instead of my singing career coming to a close, I was about to embark on a musical journey that would change my life forever.
PART ONE
Beginnings
CHAPTER ONE
Childhood
“RACE YOU!”
It was a warm, sunny summer’s day in my home town of Bristol, and my mother had taken my older brother, John, and me to Vassals Park for a treat. Vassals Park, or Oldbury Court Estate, was one of the best green spaces in the city. It had history, being old enough to be mentioned in the Domesday Book, but as a young boy I didn’t care about any of that. I just wanted to run about and have fun.
As soon as we arrived, John and I ran over to the play area. There were swings, a sand pit, and an early form of treadmill: two wooden drums on a spindle with a set of metal pipes alongside.
“Bet you can’t go as fast as me,” John boasted as we took turns. We carried on running while Mum sat on a bench watching us, getting on with her knitting. We played on that treadmill for ages (perhaps that’s why both John and I became interested in running later on) before Mum decided it was time to go.
“Does anyone fancy an ice cream?” she asked, knowing this was the best way to get us to move.