IN THE introduction to her weighty (in density if not in content) autobiography, Elaine C Smith admits that as a young drama student desperate to break into musical theatre, she would often attend performances of Evita in London's West End, starrin
g the dynamite duo of Elaine Paige and Barbara Dickson. Smith greatly admired the Dunfermline-born singer, and dreamed of one day emulating her success. Except, as Dickson is quick to point out in her autobiography, it is a common misconception that she performed in the original stage production of Evita. She did, in fact, appear only on the soundtrack album. Perhaps Smith was dreaming a little too vividly in those days.
Her error serves as a reminder that in a memoir, especially those of the showbiz variety, the reader is often hostage to the author's subjectivity. Can the star in question be trusted with the truth when they have a romanticised, self-serving distortion they'd rather maintain? And given that most entertainers spend their lives being told how exceptional they are, can they even know themselves and recognise the failings that a good, objective biographer might see clearly?
Fortunately, these titans of Scottish entertainment have written books characterised by honest introspection unhampered by melodrama or neediness. Unfortunately, Smith felt the need to share too much, not in terms of intimate outpourings as such, but rather by assuming that her readers would be interested in virtually every single mundane detail of her life and career. It's a vastly overlong tome, written in a chatty, digressive style that should have been reined in by a stricter editor. Even the most hardened Smith devotee (and doubtless such people exist) will be challenged by the interminable chapters on her uninteresting childhood.
Eventually, after what seems like nine lifetimes, she starts writing about her career, from Naked Video to Rab C Nesbitt on TV, to her many stage successes in Scotland. She makes some astute observations about performing comedy, and challenges – quite effectively – the preconception that she is merely some corny, parochial, "wasn't it all great when we lived up a close?" comedian. Indeed, throughout the book she reveals herself a fine arbiter of comic taste, while admitting there is nothing particularly groundbreaking about her own work.
Dickson's memoirs are a model of restraint by comparison. She writes clearly, briskly and especially vividly of her time spent on the thriving Scottish folk scene of the 1960s and 1970s. It was here that she felt most in touch with her music, before – as she admits with some regret – drifting into an MOR pop career that she never felt entirely comfortable with. Only in recent years, after returning to the traditional music she clearly adores, has she felt more at ease with herself and her art.
Dickson writes that from an early age, she has boasted an essentially serious nature, even though her book displays a dry, modest wit throughout. Whereas Smith might perhaps be best described as a sensitive extrovert, Dickson comes across as a naturally reserved, often healthily sceptical person, with a clear understanding of her own strengths and foibles. Self-critical to a fault, her innate seriousness finds her still unable to laugh at the 1980s kitsch of the video for I Know Him So Well, the hit power ballad she sang with Elaine Paige. Despite the success she reaped during her hit-making heyday, it's clear she'd rather that bland, big-haired image could be erased from the public memory.
Nevertheless, these are neither sour nor bitter memoirs, notwithstanding an unattractive passage in Smith's book wherein she sneers at "elitist" critics for looking down upon much of her work (for the record, I have never reviewed or even seen Smith performing live, so there's no agenda – another of her favourite words – here).
Otherwise, Dickson and Smith both come across as intelligent, decent people who seem genuinely grateful for the success they've achieved. By their own admittance, neither has led a particularly explosive life (they almost seem slightly embarrassed by the lack of showbiz debauchery on display), but both have much to be proud of – Dickson's affair with Des Lynam, for example.
Nothing Like a Dame (in which every person Smith has ever met is described as wonderful) and A Shirt Box Full of Songs (the title refers to the receptacle belonging to her father in which for years she has stored her song sheets) are undoubtedly for fans only. But for brevity and decorum if nothing else, Dickson's sporadically interesting tale is preferable to Smith's often tiresome – if heartfelt – self-indulgence.
