Meeting heroes requires all expectation to be left at the door.
He lives a sozzled life of floating moments. His enthusiams rise like
mountains, fill his horizon, then sink to be recalled as genuinely
funny stories. In dress I'd say... shabby chic. Walking away after our
infrequent meetings I am left with a smile on my face, and a sense of
admiration. He has talent. What purpose he will ever put it to now is
irrelevant. Meet him and somehow the day brightens. That's Jamesy.
This is a story he told me a long time ago. I have no idea of its veracity. Suffice to say, knowing him, it is true.
'Mac and me were on the piss. You know me, anywhere and anything for a night out.'
I should mention that Jamesy's sensibitlities are - old fashioned.
He praises good manners and has a sense of fair play which becomes him.
'We found ourselves staying the night in the Europa in Belfast.
Fancy room. Drinking til whenever. Jeez, I thought - I'm home. I was
born for this-. So the talk flowed, the drink flowed faster and the
craic was mighty. We shuffled to our room at God knows what time. But
the talk was that we might stay another night - and I wasn't going to
argue with that.
Morning. I awoke with a mouth full of wool and Mac had gone for
breakfast, I presume. Now, maybe a cup of coffee, a croissant. But the
artery assault of an Ulster Fry - no way. I slid into a seat in the
lounge. The coffee revived. Not the same as a wee Powers but that could
wait. That morning I was a man at ease with himself and with the world.
The morning bustle relaxed me and I imagined myself waking to this
regularly. The city slid by outside and from within I admired the
industry and busyness of it all. It just wasn't for me. A man of simple
pleasures me, you know that. Simple but expensive, and there's the rub,
eh? My morning companions comprised a few bleary eyed suits and some
crumpled ladies whose demeanour spoke to me of having earned last
night's fee strapped to the bed, or similar. What the hell. We all have
a life to lead, eh?
I spied this loner in the corner. All in black. Suit, shirt, dark
glasses and a black fedora. Was him. The Man. For God's sake, I've been
a fan of his for years. And there he was. Reading the paper and sipping
coffee. Over I goes and stood shuffling at his side like a demented
pensioner in a queue for the bogs. He wouldn't look up. Adjusted his
shades once and kept on reading. Turned the page of his paper. But I
had to say something, didn't I? So I catalogued every song that he'd
sung. Every crisp lyric that had dented my heart and said what I felt.
I mean I worshipped this man. His work. His style. Everything.
Anyway, I eulogised for minutes. He kept his eyes down. Turned another page. But on I went.
And do you know what he said? After I had poured out my life to
him. How his songs had taken me to places I'd never known existed.
Places in the heart. Cobwebbed, secret places where rendezvous with the
blues happened easily and every time brand new. How love had come and
gone and the lingering melody was not her name whispered in the night,
nor her perfume in the hall, but his songs. God, I told him that he'd
soundtracked my life. That the dusty scratches of his albums played in
rented rooms somehow underscored my vision of life, myself and love.'
Jamesy paused. I got the impression that the story had gained the
familiarity of chanted prayer. But his performance was flawless.
'And do you know what he said, this icon, this fat litte genius in black?
Do you know what he said?'
He expected no reply. I obliged.
Again the perfect timing.
'Feck Off'
'That's it. Two words. In all those songs of his. All the humanity,
the angst...the artistry. And all he said to me were those two
words...Feck Off.'
I sympathised. I let Jamesy see the shock flit across my face. I
told him that his hero worship was obviously misplaced and that the
insight into the human condition contained within The Man's songs was
poetic fiction, box-office bucks. I think I may have advised him to transfer his
musical affections to Country where you always got roughly what it said
on the tin.
'What?' he squeaked, 'Abandon the Man. You're joking. Only two words, granted. But two words of feckin' brilliance.' |
|
|
Written by Phil (6738 comments posted) 6th January 2008 | Enjoyed this very much. Personally, I'd drop the first line - seems more like an excuse than the opening of a good piece of writing - which this is.
Phil. |
Written by hutmaster (134 comments posted) 6th January 2008 | I've taken your advice, Phil, and removed that first line. Didn't think of it as an excuse but more a way of beginning a very short pen-portrait of a complex character whom I have know for a long time. However, I do see what you were getting at - and agree that it might read like an excuse.
The Man in this I deliberately left un-named but I suppose he's unlikely to be reading this and need hardly sue; it is Van 'The Man' Morrison whom Jamesy idolised even more after the encounter.
Thanks for the read. Much appreciated.
hm |
Written by Bottleblondesurfer (3369 comments posted) 8th January 2008 | This was a joy to read, can't offer much in the way of criticism; it was what it was and very enjoyable too.
Re-telling a tale is a tricky thing to do as the original voice is missing but you kept it short and to the point, so it worked
I somehow knew it was Van, he has a reputation for being outrageously rude. He once walked out of a concert in Derby because someone ketp shouting at him.
How can someone who can write "Listen to the Lion" and "It stoned me" be so antisocial, and still be loved?
Nice piece anyway
Jane |
Written by hutmaster (134 comments posted) 8th January 2008 | Yes, Jane, The Man has a terrible reputation for his gruff manner. I think Jamesy was still half cut and genuinely overwhelmed by the proximity of his hero to remember Morrison's anti-social streak.
I agree that it is difficult to re-tell a story in any sort of interesting way, especially in non-fiction, but this was such a good tale that I thought it might be worth chancing.
Genuinely pleased to hear from you on this Jane as I thought myself and Phil were its only fans.
hm
| Hi
Written by embro (126 comments posted) 10th January 2008 | | Hi
Written by embro (126 comments posted) 10th January 2008 | Sorry about the above !... I'll start again.
I am a bit late reading your piece but I enjoyed very much. It is a good tale, well told, in a nice style.
embro |
Only registered users can rate and write comments.
Please login or register. Powered by AkoComment 2.0! |
Previous item
