As I walk down Sunset Boulevard, one week before the Grammy Awards, Sam Smith is everywhere – staring out from the cover of Rolling Stone in the 7-Eleven, like a doe-eyed George Michael his album stacked next to the cash register at Starbucks a guest on The Ellen DeGeneres Show on a billboard, dwarfing passing Chevies, his eyes and quiff lowered to the ground, in the grip of melancholy. H is name has been transformed almost overnight from that of a pedestrian everyman to a burgeoning legend, evoking the likes of Sam Cooke and James Brown and, by default, their old-school appeal, from a time when a singer was just a man in a suit with a great voice, crooning about love and loss.
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