In 1992 I made a promise to myself. It was after the Madder Rose gig at the Riverside. Nicholas Hawkes had just persuaded me, against my better judgement, that I should go backstage and speak to the band. I did so. It turned out I had nothing of interest to say to popstars and they had very little to say to me. At least after they'd tried to make conversation and I'd given them very little back. So I went home and had an asthma attack. It was utterly, utterly humiliating. And it made me decide that I would never again put myself in the lowly position of approaching a person who did not know me to tell them how great I thought they were. In fact, I would only tell a stranger I thought they were great if they said it to me first.
Permitted:
Michael Stipe: Er, excuse me, aren't you Helen Parker?... I loved your latest movie... and that speech you gave at the Oscar ceremony... fantastic!
Me: Thanks. Stand was quite a nice song.
Not permitted:
Me: Hi aren't you Michael Stipe? I (gush, gush - I can't even write it it's too embarrassing).
Anyway, that brings me nicely round to Sunday. I'd just enjoyed a double bill of music - Malcolm Middleton supported by Jennie and the Bets. I enjoyed Malcolm's disgustingly depressing songs so much that I bought his album. A wee Scottish chap standing by the merchandise stall pointed out that Malcolm was just standing over by the bar and would be happy to sign my cd. I said thank you very much but really there's no need. He implored me "it'll be the only chance you get!" I again politely declined and returned to my pals. Seconds later, a tap on my shoulder and there was the man dragging Malcolm Middleton along and thrusting a pen at him. I said that I really hadn't asked to have it signed, but of course I thought he was great. . . (NNNOOOOOoooooooooo! Promise broken!)
Much mutual embarrassment ensued. He signed the cd with some jaunty birthday wishes. I didn't have an asthma attack. I got away with it. I admired someone and it didn't make me feel like a useless pleb.
Walking out of the Cluny I passed by him as he sat at a table near the door, I smiled and said "thanks for the birthday greetings!". He responded with a tired ah-leave-me-alone-now-will-you look.
Never again.
This time I mean it.
See a review of the canny Scotsman.
7 comments:
Yep. I get you. I had to ask Pal savage if I could borrow his drumkit, again, the wee scottish merch man going 'he's just over there pet, go on and ask him'. So up I walked, all the while thinking 'Don't say anything about The Delgados, don't mention anything about The Delgados, don't tell him you think his drumming is amazing and don't ask if you can touch the hem of his robe'
I didn't either. Quite proud of myself!
That should have been 'Paul Savage'. essh.
Do you use your own sticks in that sort of situation?
What? In borrowing a drumkit? Oh aye. Your sticks is your sticks. And they're not that hard to carry around. Quite light actually.
I'm exactly the same with meeting musical heroes. I never want to meet them, ever. I'm scared that I'll be chatting to one of them and all of a sudden they'll look over my shoulder at a girl and shout "wa-hey! Baps on that! Gerrrrrrt, yer tits out for the lads (etc)" or summit.
So, when I had to shake Bill Drummond's hand in order to buy a tiny piece of artwork from him, I was petrified that he was either going to be a big disappointment, or I was going to accidently blurt out how mint the KLF's 'Chill Out' album was.
The conversation went:
Bill: "Hiya."
Me: "Alright."
Bill cuts bits of artwork and hands it to me.
Me: "Cheers."
Phew!
Simondo Topless thought I was going to cry with emotion at one point though.
I have a copy of 45 by Bill Drummond with the dedication,
I've been asked to put something like 'Fuck The Millenium' here but the thing is if I was to fuck anything I'm sure I could think of something more satisfying to fuck than a date in time. Yours, Bill
It still mortally embarrasses me and I wasn't even there to have it written.
I met Barry Burns in Manchester, after Greavsy went across to him and said something along the lines of 'my mate wants to meet you'. Far from being a disappointment, Mr Burns was extremely good to talk to, and did something similar to what Daz was worried about but with bile. eg 'Look at that c**t's hair! What a t**t!'. He was heroic and epic in his abuse of others. I love Barry Burns, me.
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