I can’t say for certain, but it stands to reason that I don’t get anywhere near as many of those promotional emails as the big-name pundits do. But if Trish or Stephanie or Gillian or any of my other PR contacts happen to be reading this, rest assured your messages never go the way of those cyber-ads for Viagra or penis enlargement that somehow manage to worm through my spam filter.
In fact, I’ll go as far as saying that no matter how grumpy I might be feeling, your words always put a smile on my face. Those hoity-toity bigwigs might curse and swear at the sight of an arm-long list of promos or shout-outs (notice the use of trendy media-speak), but when I’m getting ready to open up my in-box, the dog quite often snuggles up to my right boot instead of squinting at it from the safe side of the sofa. It’s as if the ugly little mutt knows I’ll be in a good mood; and whereas I’m seldom inclined to do any strutting at that time of day, there’s no denying the messages make me feel important – as if my opinion carries some clout … and in a household where my thoughts on the best kind of baked beans count for nothing, that comes as a welcome crutch to my often ailing self-esteem.
Now, I’ve never made a secret of steering away from reviews … okay, I might say something about The Felice Brothers being one of the best live bands around or that Oasis are overrated, or I might even give a well-deserved leg-up to super-talented, unsigned bands like The Kosmos and 4th Street Traffic, but given that I’m a talentless musician who believes people should only criticise from a point of superiority, the occasional throwaway comment is as far as I’m prepared to go. And yet, just like my scrawny dog, snoring and twitching and slobbering over my laces as he dreams of catching fifty rats, I sometimes look at my messages and imagine myself sharing a few drinks and gossiping with famous and well-regarded critics like Tom de Lisle and David Cheal (I’ve deliberately avoided allying myself to legends like Mark Radcliffe and Mark Lamarr; that would be like my scaredy-cat mutt not only catching those 50 rats but also taking a hefty chunk out of that fierce-looking mongrel from the scruffy house opposite the Chinese takeaway – the one that never wears a collar and keeps peeing on the sweet williams near to where my dog likes to laze in the sun.)
But setting aside Walter Mitty moments, my PR contacts do more than simply brighten up my day: by likening their latest starry-eyed newcomer to an act that has already achieved cult status, they make sure I know which names to drop when I’m out there trying to give the impression of being a switched-on kind of guy … and for someone in this line of work who has only just found out that MIA isn’t really the rap queen’s first name, that kind of info is a godsend.
And yes, yes, I know this is all symptomatic of an inferiority complex, I’ve been told a hundred times before; someone even said that Ted Bundy was a sufferer! Well, in response to those bar-room shrinks who go on about professional help, let me say that I’ve always had this tendency and have never killed a soul – not even when Pecker Bird came back from the fish and chip shop and spilled mushy peas and gravy over the 8-track cartridge player I’d only just unpacked.
I can remember, during the sixties, when a whole generation was going crazy for either The Beatles or The Stones, there was me pretending to be a fan of Bob Dylan and The Byrds. If the truth is known, I didn’t care much for the music, but that didn’t matter; as soon as their popularity became widespread, I was on the lookout for something new … imagine, barely out of short trousers, and I was scorning these soon-to-be superstars like I did The Bachelors and Val Doonican. And to make matters worse, thanks to an English tutor who dreamed of gliding through the hazy streets of Haight-Asbury on some sort of psychedelic surfboard, I was set to become a more insufferable show-off than ever before.
A closet hippy, he introduced me to bands with such spellbinding names as Big Brother and the Holding Company, Jefferson Airplane and my own special favourite, The Grateful Dead.
Now before anyone gets the wrong end of the stick, let me say that my fondness for these pioneers of psychedelic rock owed nothing to their music. Maybe if LSD or mescaline was readily available in our neck of the woods then the brain-numbing drawn-out musical improvisations would have sounded less like an over-long dirge. As it was, when a cheap bottle of cider, a shifty lick of a nutmeg or a quick sift through a packet of bird seed was as close as we got to anything hallucinogenic, the music always sounded like … like an over-long dirge.
So how come I was carrying a torch for Jerry Garcia’s Grateful Dead? Well, having the lowdown – all the inside information – was what mattered if you wanted people to think you were hip and groovy … and given that our English teacher believed the Beat Generation writers were more significant than Shakespeare, those fifth formers who could read without moving their lips were introduced to Ken Kesey’s novel, One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest.
Now, had the author been born 20 years earlier, his name would have been spoken of in the same breath as Kerouac and Ginsberg and Burroughs; as it was, he could only claim to be a disciple … not that this diminished his devotion or addiction to the bohemian lifestyle. In fact, because his book was the product of a copy-cat love affair with hallucinatory drugs, much of the narrative was beyond the grasp of fifteen-year-olds – the chapter in which the two prostitutes were smuggled into the psychiatric ward was a notable exception. But even so, the complex style of writing did nothing to dim my fascination with the author.
For those of you unfamiliar with Ken Kesey, let me just say that when he and a bunch of equally enthusiastic acid-heads journeyed to the east coast and met up with Timothy Leary, this champion of LSD – the man who urged the nation to ‘turn on, tune in, drop out’ – refused to meet with Kesey and his endearingly-named followers, The Merry Pranksters, because they were all so stoned out of their minds.
Now, with a skeleton or two languishing in my own cupboard, I’m not about to comment on their excesses, but I will say that the Grateful Dead were so heavily involved in the Pranksters’ ‘Acid-Test’ gatherings that they became known as the house band.
And so, with all these juicy morsels at my fingertips, I was in my element. I would even turn the conversation around to suit – mention the words dead or grateful in any context, and bosh! I was in like a flash. I can even remember being at this christening, and my eldest cousin on my mother’s side, who I hadn’t seen for ages, was saying how he nearly ran over this cuckoo on his way to the church … let me tell you, I bet he vowed to choose his words more carefully once I’d finished bending his ear.
In 1969 Jerry Garcia went on to form The New Riders Of The Purple Sage – imagine the fun I could have had with that glorious-sounding name had it not coincided with my move to Switzerland. Sadly, in a land more famous for yodelling than psychedelic rock, talk of outrageous drug-fuelled escapades and music that made the alpenhorn sound positively upbeat was more likely to annoy than amuse. Needless to say, in the home of the cuckoo clock, the temptation was enormous, but after 5 long years I returned to these shores purged of the ego-boosting need to name drop. That said, there was no shaking off my hatred of muesli and fat and flabby white sausages that needed boiling for two hours, nor a mild dislike of women with unshaven armpits … oh, and a fondness for kirsch, but that’s another story.
And believe it or not, nothing changed for the best part of twenty-five years … okay, a lengthy spell domiciled in France meant I had to get used to women with hairy armpits, but when it came to blatant name-dropping, I simply never felt the urge.
But then one night I was tuned in to Radio 2, and there was the wonderful Mark Radcliffe going on about someone called Sufjan Stevens. Now don’t ask me why – maybe I just wanted to be like my hero – but there was something about the name that stirred the long-buried emotion … and, yes, you’ve guessed it: by lunch time the following day I’d been out and bought his most famous album, Illinois, and when I turned in that night, I knew enough about his background to write a half-decent profile.
And then it was back to the bad old days: spouting on about his plan to record an album for each of the 50 US states, and whenever someone played an unfamiliar record that was vaguely melodic, I’d put on a cool-dude expression and announce quite casually: ‘Sounds like Sufjan Stevens,’ as a back-door intro to my well-rehearsed spiel … which was more or less what I had in mind when I pitched up at this party a fortnight or so ago.
The guy whose birthday it was introduced me to this bunch of yuppies, and although they weren’t my type, I hung around thinking I might interest them in my latest book. I didn’t recognise the song that was playing, but it was tuneful enough to fit the bill.
‘Sounds just like Sufjan Stevens.’ With a slightly raised eyebrow and a barely noticeable nod, I smiled at the good-looking brunette in her late twenties.
At first I thought that the 3 or four people tittering had perhaps overdone the booze or the bouncing powder or both, but that was until the smart-arse who was struggling to keep a straight face said: ‘Hardly surprising, old boy, this is his latest album.’
I joined in the laughter of course, and with a nod towards my glass, made a joke about cheap vodka making you deaf; but the damage was done.
Now, given the embarrassment, you would be entitled to think that this episode had cured me once and for all, but only the other day I could feel my heart racing as I read through the first of that morning’s shout-outs; even the dog sensed my excitement, raising his pug face a tad before lapsing back into dreamland.
Here was an email promoting the latest album by a guy named Half-handed Cloud … and if you think that’s a bit of a mouthful, try getting your laughing gear around the title: As Stowaways in Cabinets of Surf, We Live-out In Our Members a Kind of Rebirth.
Now, if that little lot doesn’t hint at rebuilding reputations, wait until you hear this … and I know you won’t believe it, but it’s the God’s honest truth: good old Half-handed is Sufjan Stevens’ trombonist … howzabout that then?
Crikey! I’m so excited. Need to calm myself down. Now where was I …? Oh, yes: according to the PR blurb, the songs are connected with the lyrical tradition of 19th century hymns. Now don’t go jumping to conclusions; when I’m next in church and the choir start singing Shall We Gather At The River, there’s no way I’m going to stand there and say that it sounds just like Half-handed Cloud. But … and it’s a big but, if I can only memorise the name of his album, then I reckon I’m back on a roll.
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But then one night I was tuned in to Radio 2, and there was the wonderful Mark Radcliffe going on about someone called Sufjan Stevens. Now don’t ask me why – maybe I just wanted to be like my hero – but there was something about the name that stirred the long-buried emotion … and, yes, you’ve guessed it: by lunch time the following day I’d been out and bought his most famous album, Illinois, and when I turned in that night, I knew enough about his background to write a half-decent profile.
