Besides being one of the most exquisitely melodious, sensitive singer-songwriters you’re ever likely to hear, John Grant is also one of the most beautiful men you could ever hope to meet.
I’m not the only married man to feel this way about the tortured gay pop star. As he tells me over lunch on London’s South Bank, male fans are constantly gushing after his shows about how utterly they worship and adore him. ‘Then they’ll go and ruin it by saying, “Oh, and by the way, may I introduce my wife?”’
And it’s not that the Michigan-born 42-year-old is excessively handsome or exquisitely ephebic or anything like that. In fact, with his woolly hat, bearded, potato-y features, and frayed, haunted, kicked-puppy air, Grant could quite easily be mistaken for a tramp who’s wandered out from beneath Waterloo arches rather than the man fêted by an audience including Jimmy Page and Ringo Starr as Best Live Act at this year’s Mojo awards.
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