Londoners Magazine

So, as I boasted in my previous blog, last week I came in close contact with Nick Cave. Yes, I found myself within inches of the master wordsmith, the bruised balladeer, and, lately, Grinderman guitar god. He’s one of my personal heroes. And his moustache is never short of monolithic. Recently, he’s been sporting the old “sprouting directly out of my nose” face fuzz. And I got to see it up close, bristles and all.

So how did this come to be? Well, as a result of my dozy bumbling through the world of music journalism (I’m sort of assuming this bumbling will become a career at some point), I was allowed to go to my very first awards ceremony. It was fancy; there was a free bar; I was in a suit. Here’s what happened.

My job was to “chaperone” a musician at the ceremony. This really means walk them up and down stairs, but I like to think my unofficial role was personal bodyguard. I read between the lines. My charge was Seasick Steve, former hobo of sixty-ish years and bluesman supreme, who just a couple of years ago got noticed by the music industry after several decades on the road (and riding the rails). He just recently sold out the Royal Albert Hall. Yes, a man who was homeless for the majority of his life is going to play a sold out gig at the Royal Albert Hall with his busted-up three-string guitar. Just take a moment to let the coolness of that sink in and make you feel all warm in your tummy.

Steve was a dude of the dudest proportions. We chatted while I took him to his seat, and I even got to tape a quick interview with him after the ceremony. It might have been because I was fairly drunk by that point (free bar, free bar), but for some reason I felt the need to thank him afterwards “because, like, I’m just starting out and it means a lot, man”. He made comforting noises, but he must have thought I was a bit of a spanner.

It may not have been wise, but surely getting drunk is all a mere mortal can do when standing in a room with Jimmy Page, Lemmy, Kevin Shields, John Fogerty, The Specials, Irma Thomas and the aforementioned one man moustache monster? Downing shots, believe it or not, was the only way a greenhorn like me could avoid running around, giggling like a schoolgirl, giddily asking for autographs for my scrapbook.

It was the Dutch courage that allowed me to stride up to Steve’s table (past Lemmy, who probably murders people and smokes their ashes for fun) and request an audience. It was the same Dutch courage that prompted me, insanely, to approach Nick Cave and shake his hand, squeakily telling him that I really liked his music. I even got a smile and a “thanks, mate” for my troubles. Plus, I swear his moustache winked at me. But, granted, that could have been the booze. In any case, if the evening had ended with me being pulled apart by wild horses, I probably still would have had a smile on my face. I am now seriously considering being drunk for all journalistic activities.

If only I’d been a bit more drunk, I might even have marched up to John Lydon and told him he’s a self-absorbed, narcissistic, second-rate tosspot. But, then again, no evening is that perfect.