As I was reading the umpteenth review of Little Boots this week (STILL the next big thing), I found myself immediately informed, in case I was wondering, that her real name is Victoria Hesketh. As in “the latest single from Little Boots (real name Victoria Hesketh) is out now…” And with that dutiful snippet of fact, a dose of rather mundane reality was instantly injected into proceedings with all the subtlety of a wet kipper. For a split second there, she was the talented musician and performer Little Boots. But now she’s just plain old Vicky.
Do I really need to know her real name? Am I unable to draw anything of any worth from the review unless I know her real name? Is it good reporting and good journalism that dictates this fact-fetish? Or some compulsive journalistic tick?
Hands up if you knew that Bono’s real name is Paul Hewson, while The Edge’s family know him as Dave Evans. If you didn’t know, do you really care? Do these new pearls of wisdom make any difference to your love or loathing for U2 (or indeed your indifference)? Will this information make all the difference as you read a review of the band’s new album?
Rarely are we told that Slash was christened Saul Hudson, or that Iggy Pop is the alter ego of James Osterberg. Elton John (real name Reg Dwight) is immune, and not even Lady Gaga gets this much automatic scrutiny in the names department, though to be fair, Gaga’s identity is usually outed soon enough in protracted discussion (Stefani Germanotta if you hadn’t already heard).
So why, every single time Little Boots is mentioned, in even the shortest review, do we have to endure her parenthetical reveal in the very first breath? As sure as night after day, this compulsive divulging of information belies an obsession with removing any sense of mystery from our musical heroes. In an entertainment world where Idol rules, we revel in lifting the curtain on the Wizard of Oz, and demand to be shown the trivial, and ultimately tedious, reality behind every theatrical facade. Gone is the willingness to suspend belief and take part in the escapism of entertainment; everything must be anchored in banal reality, stage names included.
Only when an artist reaches a certain level of fame and success do people stop reflexively broadcasting their real name, safe in the knowledge that music fans have heard it a million times already, and allow them the identity that their stage name presents. P!nk (Alecia Moore) and Santigold (Santi White) can make it through a single review unmasked, while Little Boots still can not.
So, Little Boots (that’s Victoria Hesketh, everybody), apparently you can only reclaim the mystique of your stage name in all its stand alone glory once enough people have been informed of your real name. Can you hurry up already?
