Famous for Five Minutes

A mate has just drawn my attention to another piece about poor old Syd Barrett, that was in the Observer at the weekend. Some saddo journalist had got nothing better to do than search out this poor old feller who just happened to be the leader of some prog rock band back in the hippy days.

The legend is no legend at all. The feller was tied too tight to be a rock star. Probably tied too tight to be a postman. The feller dropped out of the rock star life, and went back to being a normal nutcase like the rest of us. His old mates went on to become squillionaires and Syd went on to sign on the sick. Roger Waters and Nick Mason made so much money from the Pink Floyd name it makes you sick. But do bored old journos go chasing them up to ask "Where did it go wrong"?

When I was a crazy fool kid all I wanted to be was a rock god. Me and my mate John came bloody close to stardom without having any musical talent whatsoever. We came up with the Sans Culottes and promoted em like they were Def Leppard or The Sex Pistols or something. We did photos and sent tapes and press releases to DJs and Music Papers. And it all worked.

What we didn't let on was that the photos were fake. That microphone was a fishing rod covered in gaffa tape and none of those venues on the UK tour even existed. The scam worked for so long that major DJs were mentioning the band, and papers like the NME were doing think pieces on them. I remember once we even considered getting off our arses and actually learning to play and making the most of it.

We were a bit in awe of those lucky enough to hit the spot and achieve some sort of brief notoriety. Never mind that it was nothing to do with anything but pure circumstance. Warhol's fifteen minutes were up in next to no time for some people, who could barely find time to put their sunglasses on and enjoy it.

One of these fifteen minute wonders hit the charts again this week - John Otway - with the most appalling bag of shite you'll ever hear. He was good once, people, honest. For fiteen minutes. Dig out the stuff he did with a hairy pillock known as Wild Willie Barrett, particularly a song called Really Free, which he performed once on Top Of The Pops. He did a nutcase ballad called Geneve, and a mad free-for-all called Beware Of The Flowers Cos I'm Sure They're Gonna Get You Yeah."

But I digress.

What it is about being in a vaguely focussed pop band that means that for the rest of your life there's going to be some loonies camped out on your doorstep. Imagine being a sixty year old Marc Almond, with some sad fools camping out on the gatepost all day and all night trying to turn the clock back forty years.

I've loathed Joni Mitchell with a vengeance but she was right when she said that being a singer is a little weird. "No-one went up to Vincent Van Goch and kept yelling 'Paint a Starry Night Again, Man!!!' He just painted it and that was that.." And she has a point. Why do we expect our entertainers to stay petrified in some timewarp just because they did something we liked once.

Nobody comes chasing after me and goes, 'Paint that fence again, just like you did in 1994!! We loved that".

No journalist is ringing my doorbell and saying "Can I talk to you about that fence you painted in 94, dude..." It doesn't matter that I painted a few hundred other fences since. This is THE fence according to the critics. I just got the colour right, and used the right brush...

IThe '94 fence was OK - if a little spontaneous, but I've painted FAR better fences since, with better quality paint. And the newer fences lasted longer and didn't get lobbed onto the village bonfire after a year. But some guy from the Observer just wouldn't let it lie.

Do they pay ANY attention to that beautiful fence I painted in 1999 in West Melton?? No they bloody don't! It's 1994 whatever I do. It stinks, it really does..

Blogga.