It's all Pete Doherty's fault. No, it's down to Red Hot Chili Peppers. Or do we finger Fran Healy of Travis? Nah, sod it, let's blame Ewan McGregor and Jake Gyllenhaal. They're movie stars, proper ones. They're used to shouldering serious responsibility.

If it weren't for these artists, Amy Macdonald wouldn't be the teen-sensation singer-songwriter she is now. She'd still be kicking round Glasgow, an undergraduate at university, studying social sciences with an emphasis on geography.

Amy was 12 when her world wobbled on its axis. She was on a family outing to Rothesay on Scotland's west coast. Her gran gave her some money to treat herself. Instead of buying a tenner's worth of ice-cream she bought a CD: The Man Who by Travis. It was the first album Amy ever owned. She was blown away: simple songs (Driftwood, Why Does It Always Rain On Me?, Writing To Reach You), sung brilliantly, roaring powerfully in her ears and in her head.

Inspired, adolescent Amy picked up one of the guitars her dad had lying round the house. He never played them; he'd never been in a band and had only 'mucked about' on the instrument with his pals when he was younger. And Amy just taught herself how to play the thing. There were no genetic influences, nor even lessons. Just a good ear and few chord patterns found on the internet. And a huge, burning, raging desire to write and play songs.