Saturday, August 22, 2015

Encounters With The Rich and Shameless #1

I've often had it suggested to me that I should write my own life story.  That just ain't happening, but I have reached a compromise - I'm gonna write about some of the people that I've met, either in person or on line.  In some cases, such as this first entry, I'm not going to name people, but I will leave enough clues to identify them.

Way back in 1752 a semi-famous band toured Adelaide.  I was in the habit of heading out and getting the odd signature here and there, but I had no interest in this band, I rather preferred their chart rivals who were, to me anyway, an oasis in a otherwise musical desert.  Anyway, the then partner of a really good chum of mine asked me if I'd like to come and hang out and yap while she went goo-goo over these mop headed idiots.  Seeing that the alternative was either writing about yet another bland band that I couldn't stand, or sit at home watching the cockroaches race up the wall, I headed out.

The band themselves were staying at the Hilton in Adelaide.  At that point famous bands stayed at the Hilton.  Massive bands, like The Rolling Stones, Pearl Jam or U2 plumped for the Hyatt.  Middle range bands went for the Stamford and, if you were just some shit act with half a hit, you were shoved into either the Arkaba or, God forbid, into the Austral, a 'hotel, in word only with all the mod cons, such as sink to piss in.  Good times.

Down to the Hilton we went.  The band staggered out and headed for their people movers.  My pal, a lovely girl, got the drummers signature and the bass player, and photos with both.  The guitarist wandered out, promptly ignored her and sat down in his car, with the door open.  My pal wandered up the car and asked, politely (as was her way), could he please sign the album she had.  His reply, verbatim, "Can't you see I'm busy?  I mean, fuck off.  Fucking scabs."

My pal was taken aback.  I walked over.  "Mate, there's no need to be rude."
"I'm busy here."
"Doing what?"  As far as I could see the only thing he was doing was sitting there, abusing young ladies.  His manner an speech was combative and I'm not one to back down.
"Look, just fuck off.  I'm sick of people like you."
"People like her?  What? People that buy your shitty records, your shitty singles and buy your overpriced concert tickets?"  With that he looked directly at me.
"If you don't fuck off I'll get out of this car."  That was it for me.
"Get out of the car then and I'll smack your fucking head clear around the block and back again." He stared. "Come on then. Big fucking mouth. Get out."

He didn't move.  He shut up though.  I kept going.  When I fire up, it's hard to stop.  "Come on, wanker. Get out of the car. I'll beat six shades of shit out of you.  I'll smack you so fucking hard you'll think Noel Gallagher is your mum."

No movement. "That'd be right. You play guitar as well as you threaten people mate, that being shit.  Fucking dickbag that you are."

The lead singer came out, the girls squealed.  The lead singer stopped, posed for photos, signed everything.  I pointed this out to the guitarist who wasn't game enough to lean over to shut the door.  "One day, very soon, you're going to be nothing. A fucking washed up has been who was in a one hit wonder of a band.  You fucking tit."

With the the singer got in the car and off they went.  For the rest of the stay the guitarist wasn't seen.  He went into the hotel via the car park entrance, quoting 'security reasons'.

I was right though. His band broke up not that long after and although the singer kept going and went on to bigger and better things, the guitarist did nothing until the eventual reformation.  They toured recently, but didn't play Adelaide.  I guess it went by in a big blur for them.


SouthOzBloke said...

A lot of people need this kind of reality check nowadays.
Manners are free but what they do is show others what kind of a person you are inside.
Goodonya mate.

Kid said...

I think you went a little easy on him. You need to be more assertive and stand up for yourself.

(A little good-humoured irony there, DB.)

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