Until last week, I had never heard of Paul Cattermole. Why would I have? His band, S Club 7, wasn’t assembled by Spice Girls supremo Simon Fuller for middle aged and now old aged blokes like me. No. They were first for young children and now for young children who are now adults who still like the music and would love to relive their younger days. And why not? I still enjoy the music of The Beatles and The Monkees as much as I did when I was a kid. So why am I so saddened by Cattermole’s death? The answer is towards the end of his obituary in The Guardian.
As with so many performers and creators, it appears that Cattermole was fucked over by the suits and impresarios who creamed off the money while he went bankrupt, had to sell his awards and was reduced to becoming “an online tarot card reader, clairvoyant and spirit coach.” The obituary is overwhelmingly a tragic read.
I am not going to speculate over his death, as so many in the media and especially social media have done, with their nudge, nudge, wink, wink theories and assumptions. For one thing, I have absolutely no idea. We will know soon enough, I suspect, and the less scrupulous of us will soon be trampling all over his grave to bring us the news they suspect we crave.
Let us not pretend that the 2023 reunion of the band was put together for artistic purposes. It will be lucrative for the band members and a helpful addition to the pension pot. No one will give a toss if the nightly setlist features nothing but hits. In fact, that’s the reason people will turn up in huge numbers. And the point is everyone is happy. The band make lots of money and punters enjoy what will be for them a great show.
The music business for the vast majority of artists and performers is largely a slog these days. With earnings through the floor as people consume music through streaming, all that’s left is revenue from touring, something that’s becoming increasingly difficult, if not impossible in Europe, under Boris Johnson and Rishi Sunak’s ultra hard Brexit. Not to mention the number of venues in Britain that are closing due to the cost of living crisis.
Sadly, for whatever reason, a brighter future doesn’t exist for most performers and for Cattermole there will of course be no future at all. Used, abused and exploited by the dark side of show business, his legacy is overwhelmingly one of tragedy.
When I was a lad, I dreamed of being a rock star. All that held me back was a lack of talent. But in retrospect, it was probably all for the best. A steady job, mired in mediocrity, probably best suited my limitations, far more than an uncertain life of cynical exploitation.
The ghouls and weirdoes will all ‘know’ how Paul Cattermole died because that’s how ghouls and weirdoes do. To die at 46, whatever the cause, is usually a tragedy in itself for him and those who have been left behind. And perhaps the way he was used and manipulated in life, as well as the trolling that carry on now he’s dead, is what makes me very sad.
