Twelve-year-old Kerr James walked onto the Britain’s Got Talent stage from Glasgow with a grin that made it hard not to like him instantly. He had that combination of youthful confidence and earnestness that reads as charming rather than cocky; the kind of kid who knows what he wants and isn’t afraid to go after it. Before he sang, Kerr told the judges about his dream to become a recording artist, name-checking Freddie Mercury as a major influence. That particular choice of role model spoke volumes: Kerr wasn’t aiming for a pop career built on trendiness—he wanted drama, range, and a being-on-stage energy that consumes a room. Backstage, his whole family had come along for the ride. He called them “the full clan,” and you could see how much their support meant. For a boy from Glasgow, this was more than a TV moment; it was a chance to show a community that believed in him.
He opted to sing “Try A Little Tenderness,” a soulful, old-school number that few would pick at twelve because of its vocal demands and the emotional maturity it requires. That choice alone was a small act of daring. But Kerr didn’t pick it to be cute or ironic—he picked it because he clearly understood what the song needed. From the first verse, you could tell he’d practiced not just the notes, but the phrasing and dynamics. He started with a gentleness in his tone, the way the song asks you to lean in. Then, as the arrangement built, so did he. It was as if he’d brought three performers in one body: the quiet singer who can hold your attention with a whispered line, the soulful crooner who makes phrases melt, and the showman who explodes into the chorus with full-throated intensity.
Watching Kerr’s face during those transitions was revealing. There was a concentrated seriousness when he approached tricky runs, a small set of the jaw when he prepared to hit the higher register, and then release—wide-eyed, full of joy—when the note landed. Those micro-moments made the performance feel lived-in rather than rehearsed for television. His hands moved on the mic stand with the easy assurance of someone who’d practiced movement as much as voice; it wasn’t stiff or overly choreographed, just natural gestures that complemented the music.
The audience reacted the way people do when they witness a young person exceed expectations: surprise followed by genuine enthusiasm. You could hear people whispering to the person next to them, a kind of contagious amazement. When Kerr hit the song’s climactic stretches, the theatre rose with him, and that collective response fed into his momentum. For a performer his age, that kind of back-and-forth with the crowd is rare; most novices either ignore the room or get swallowed up by nerves. Kerr used it, relished it, and in doing so suggested he understood a basic truth of performance—music is a conversation.
The judges’ commentary captured that arc of surprise and delight. David Walliams was effusive, praising not only Kerr’s “astonishing voice” but also his charisma. He drew a direct line to Freddie Mercury—not to say Kerr was a carbon copy, but to underline the sense of lethal stage presence Kerr carried. There was something about the boy’s timing, his vocal color, and the confidence of his moves that screamed potential beyond his years. The rest of the panel echoed that sentiment: they admired the fact he was “different,” that he stood out because he had personality to spare and the chops to back it up.
Beyond the immediate praise, what made the audition striking was how Kerr combined technical skill with an emotional core. He didn’t just hit the notes; he sold them. When a young singer can communicate vulnerability and swagger in the same breath, you get something that feels rarer than raw talent—a performer with instinct. That instinct hinted at future versatility: with the right guidance and experience, Kerr could move from soulful covers to original material, or even theatrical performances that demand storytelling through song.
There was also an undercurrent of hope in the room. For his family, for young viewers watching who might come from similar backgrounds, Kerr’s performance offered a small, bright example: ambition can be rooted in community and still aim for global stages. He handled the spotlight with an ease that suggested he’d been preparing for attention long before he set foot on the Palladium stage—perhaps singing in local halls, school shows, and family gatherings where his clan cheered him on.
When the four “Yes” votes lit up, it felt inevitable rather than surprising. The panel had recognized a rare mix of power, personality and promise. Kerr left the stage with a broad smile and a kind of teenage buoyancy that made it clear he knew this was only the beginning. For audiences and industry types alike, this audition was a reminder that star quality can arrive early and loud—sometimes in a twelve-year-old from Glasgow who chooses a challenging classic and makes it his own.
