Founding member of pop rock band Texas, Sharleen Spiteri was born in Glasgow in 1967, to Vilma, a seamstress, and Eddie, a merchant seaman. Spiteri left her job as a hairdresser at the age of 17 to form the group with Altered Images’ Johnny McElhone. They had their first hit in 1989 with I Don’t Want a Lover, but it wasn’t until the release of 1997’s White on Blonde and the omnipresent single Say What You Want that Spiteri became a household name. She is married to the chef Bryn Williams and has one daughter, the model Misty Kyd. With 10 LPs in total and more than 40m album sales, Texas release The Very Best of 1989-2023 on 16 June.
I was four years old and looking like a meringue on the floor of my childhood home in Glasgow when this was taken. As a very quiet child, I was in my own little world a lot of the time, and I wouldn’t have been massively enthusiastic about posing like this. But as Dad was at sea for months on end, it was important that Mum could take photos of me and my sister for him. My grandad built that crazy brick fireplace as he was a stonemason. I guess my parents wanted to bring some Hollywood glamour into our home.
I was a happy little girl. We were living in a one-bed flat, and my sister and I slept in bunkbeds in the same room as my parents. I never realised how intense that was until I had my own daughter and thought: “Imagine having to share a room with your own actual kid? Misty doesn’t know she’s born!”
My parents moved to Loch Lomond when I was 11 and we got a slightly bigger house. They were hoping that by leaving the city they’d give my sister and me a better life in the countryside. They were right to some extent – I did love the adventures in the national park. I’d be gone all day looking at tadpoles and the waterfalls, skimming stones, swimming in the loch and climbing trees. But that was just a momentary escape from the reality of school. I hated it. As we hadn’t grown up in Loch Lomond, we were the new faces in town. The name Spiteri was weird and we had different accents from everyone else. The general attitude in the playground was: “Who the fuck are you?”
Because of that, I never, ever fitted in. But in spite of being bullied, I never retaliated aggressively. I was good with my mouth instead, and I have been since the day I was born. In just two seconds, I could put anyone down with words alone. Sometimes it would get me into more trouble than I was already in – I might say something like: “Well done. Did that make you feel unbelievably in charge?” and before I knew it, whoever had picked on me would have me by the hair, dragging me around the playground. Not that it bothers me any more. Nearly everyone who has achieved something in life has been bullied. Most musicians I know were geeks at school, whether they like to admit it or not.
As a teenager I was a Saturday junior at a big hairdresser’s in Glasgow, so I had a very good goth haircut – backcombed, with bleached-out roots and pink in it, too. I was obsessed with musicians and painted a full-sized picture of Siouxsie Sioux on my wall that I’d get guests to sign. Performing was a big part of my life from a young age as everyone in my family played an instrument and had a great voice. I wasn’t even considered one of the good singers. We’d have these family events where everyone would get up and do a song, but nobody was interested in me. My cousin used to walk on stage and sing this traditional song about a mum who’d died and gone to heaven, and all the aunties would be crying. I’d think: “Fuck’s sake, get off.” After that I’d go on and belt out Engelbert Humperdinck. The aunties would immediately clear the room and pour themselves a wee snowball or advocaat. Years later, when Texas were playing a sold-out gig at the Hydro in Glasgow, we came out for the second encore and I walked on stage and went: “To all the aunties and uncles that are here tonight, that fucked off when I got up to sing Ten Guitars – fuck you!” and then launched straight into our last song.
Over the years, my mouth has worked very well for me, particularly when I joined Texas. From the word go, the general attitude towards me in the industry was either: “She’s straight to the point” and “She says it like it is”, or “She’s a fucking bitch” and “She can be difficult”. I didn’t care – saying no to people was not a problem, and I was always definite about what I wanted. I was brought up to believe that everyone is equal – and that was a useful philosophy when it came to navigating the music world.
I was never intimidated by anybody, no matter what they said. At the start of my career, my managers went in to see the MD of Mercury Records who’d liked our demos and wanted to sign us. The door was ajar and I was sitting outside, like some kind of school kid who’s not allowed in the room. I’ll never forget hearing someone from the label say: “So what’s the ‘dodgy boiler’ like?” From that moment onwards, I realised where I stood in this business. And nothing’s changed since. Sexism is still rife in music, but it’s just less in your face.
People’s attitudes change instantly when you get a bit of recognition, and I absolutely noticed a shift after Texas became successful. We were the shit on people’s shoes before White on Blonde, and then things exploded. The moment you’ve been on Top of the Pops, everyone becomes precious around you, so to avoid the pussyfooting and bullshit I went and lived in Paris for a year, recording the next album via voicemail with Johnny in the UK. It helped me clear my head and I could be alone to get on with a new record.
My parents created that kind of determination and independence, and it’s helped me navigate the last 30 years in the music industry, and being a woman in general. My mum was always creative, which inspired me completely, while my dad, who was a bit of an alpha male, was intent on ensuring his girls could do anything that boys were taught. As a result, I’m amazing at DIY. With the help of a YouTube video I can do pretty much anything: put up shelves, do electrical work or make a table from scratch.
Since that photo was taken, I’ve barely changed. That four-year-old was lying in a nightie like a good little girl, but there’s so much going on inside her head: I was thinking about pirates and how I couldn’t wait to go into my dad’s office in the coal bunker so I could practise naming all of the flags and buoys that my dad had to know off by heart for his job.
Today, I’m in the dress again, and I’d still like to be somewhere else. I’m smiling but inside I’m thinking: “This is all of my nightmares in one place: I’m in a big frock and I’m lying down even though I have a bad back. I hate every minute of this, and I’m dying inside. Get me back to the bunker!”
