The West End of politics rarely pauses for art. But today, a shudder went through the corridors of power. Peabo Bryson, the soulful voice behind Disney's 'Beauty and the Beast' with Celine Dion, is dead. The news broke from a family statement this morning. No cause given. Just silence.
For those inside the machine, this isn't just a star passing. It's a loss of a cultural touchstone used by every MP trying to sound human. The song, an Oscar winner from 1991, has been played at party conferences, charity galas, and even inside No. 10 during a late-night karaoke session (the less said, the better). Bryson's crossover appeal made him a safe, unifying reference in a divided country.
Celine Dion's statement came quickly. 'Heartbroken. Peabo was a gentleman and a giant.' That word 'gentleman' matters. In the brutal ecosystem of showbiz and politics, Bryson was known as a man without scandal. His death robs the Westminster circuit of a reliable quote about grace under pressure.
Sources close to the Canadian singer say she is devastated. They were not just duet partners. They shared a bond forged in the pressure-cooker of a Disney recording session. Two outsiders making magic. That magic has now become elegies.
The timing is brutal. The Government is wrestling with a cost-of-living crisis, a divided cabinet, and a backbench itching for a fight. A cultural icon's death usually grants a brief, rare ceasefire. Politicians queue up to praise, to seem connected to something bigger than a bill or a vote. Expect the Speaker to allow a tribute. Expect a minute's silence. Expect the usual suspects to overstep.
But for Dion, this is personal. Her own health battles have been well-documented. A stiff person syndrome diagnosis has kept her from the stage. Bryson was one of the few she kept in touch with. He sent cards. He called. He understood what it was like to carry a nation's expectations on your vocal cords.
Downing Street has not yet issued a statement. They are waiting. Grieving is also optics. A delayed tribute suggests disrespect. A rushed one seems insincere. The machine will calculate the right moment, the right words. But for once, the calculation is irrelevant. The song is over. The singer is gone.
In the Lobby, phones buzz. Old journalists recall the 1992 election night, when the BBC played 'Beauty and the Beast' over footage of Major and Kinnock shaking hands. Try doing that now. The innocence is gone. Bryson's voice was a reminder of a time when politics could borrow emotion from a love song. Now, the soundtrack has changed. And a piece of that bipartisan fantasy is buried with him.
Celine Dion will sing again. She has to. But not today. Today, she mourns. And in the silent chambers of Westminster, even the most hardened spin doctor might feel a lump in the throat. Because art, unlike politics, tells the truth. And the truth is, we lost a good one.
