![]() She fixes Savoretti with a lingering, unblinking stare, turns on her heel and leaves. At one point, an elderly lady who looks like she's been dreamt up by Matt Lucas and David Walliams, and seems to have spent the morning putting on a variety of overcoats without taking any of them off, appears at the doorway. Indeed, the loudest response comes from a baby, who within seconds of Savoretti striking up, decides to add its own keening, Yoko Ono-esque guest vocal. But this isn't Hollywood - it's East Anglia on a cold Monday morning, and the reaction is somewhere between mild curiosity and mortification. ![]() Were this a Hollywood movie, Savoretti's performance would slowly but inexorably grip the patrons, transforming the cafe into a sea of smiling faces and loud appreciation: at the end, they might rise as one in a damp-eyed standing ovation. Unexpected and unannounced, the singer-songwriter walks in off the street, whips out his guitar and harmonica and starts playing a song called One Man Band. It is 11am and the Cambridge branch of Caffè Nero is about to witness an impromptu gig by Jack Savoretti.
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