As unlikely a pairing as the calendar is likely to conjure up, November 17th marks the birth of one of indie's original tortured talents and one of pop's original torturous talent show winners. Solo artist Jeff Buckley's emotional artistry is far removed from Sarah Harding's disposable snippets of sassy singing as one fifth of Girls Aloud.

However, the girlband is currently enjoying a peak of cultural recognition to match their chart-conquering consistency. With more consecutive hits than a filmic French assassin, a member winning housewives' hearts every Saturday night and the likes of Chris Martin leading the flurry of praise for the group, it's suddenly more modish to admire the Popstars: The Rivals winners than the newest boys with guitars.

But isn't Sarah just the mouthy blonde one? Well, yes, but there's more going for her than it appears. She learnt to play polo successfully. Her brash barbs have left the likes of Paris Hilton squirming. She didn't marry Ashley Cole. Most importantly, tracks like Love Machine and Call The Shots are eye-twitchingly catchy. Yes, she's came a long way since I first saw her gyrating on a chair and shouting "who wants some then?" to a slimy nightclub crowd, pausing from their heckles only to guzzle down Cherry VKs. OK, she probably hasn't – but now she does that at the O2 Arena rather than a grotty dive in Peterborough optimistically called Faith.

Harding isn't likely to write anything to rival Grace any time soon, though. Or anything, for that matter. Jeff Buckley's poignant album is now 14 years old, but songs such as Mojo Pin are still painful comforts to troubled souls and drifting adolescents of all ages. His cover of Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah is deemed by many as the defining version of the song. Somehow, he possessed the rare knack of fashioning a sense of purpose into his desolate jumbles of anguish and loss, which makes them strangely uplifting in spite – or because - of all of their desertion. Lover You Should Have Come Over and its ilk provide a blueprint for a whole generation of singer-songwriters.
 
It comes down to mood, really. While undoubtedly superior, the late Mr Buckley wouldn't go down too well at a party, though Ms Harding and her chums do start to grate on the brain after more than five minutes. Really, it is likely that die-hard fans of either artist will never have heard of the other one. But for sheer gall, to do so fantastically well with such a minute amount of ability, Harding takes the plaudits. Happy birthday Sarah Harding.