Monday, March 08, 2004
I seem to have met an awful lot of my biggest heroes. Some remain elusively beyond reach, like Kim Jong Il, Kurt Cobain, and Wittgenstein, but I have crossed paths with a fair few of my idols. Sometimes these fleeting meetings have deepened my admiration, but often I've been utterly underwhelmed. So, in no particular order , I present my three best and worst celebrity hero encounters.
Three heroes who were disappointing in the flesh.
1 Quentin Tarantino
2 J Mascis
3 George Clooney
My script doctor friend Tom MacRae is a former Bafta winner. On the basis of this he somehow bagged tickets for the premiere of Kill Bill Volume 1 in Leicester Square last year. We got to walk up the yellow "red" carpet past the paparazzi, and somehow blagged our way into the VIP bar. We got to hobnob with lots of B-listers, including Eubank and Jonathan Woss who was wearing a stupid yellow jump suit. As the crowds filed through to take their seats we hung back. Quentin came blitzing past with Uma Thurman and Daryl Hannah in tow. He's famous as a film geek made good, but I was unprepared for his extreme nerdiness. He was massively obese, incredibly ugly, and so badly dressed. Up on stage he introduced the cast and gave a dorky speech hyping the movie. I loved Kill Bill 1, but was shocked how unglamourous QT is. It's impossible to look good standing next to Uma, but Quentin isn't really trying.
J Mascis is one of the forgotten gods of grunge. His band Dinosaur Jr consisted of just him and a lot of different guitars. Where You Been is my favourite rock album ever. I was totally obsessed with the record from about 91 until 94. Dinosaur Jr played at the 93 Reading Festival, and apart from Pavement and the Lemonheads they were one of the main acts I wanted to see. J Mascis had agreed to a session in the signing tent, and I got totally psyched about having a chance to meet him. Damon Albarn was signing just ahead of J's slot, so I had to queue for four hours in the blazing sun with thousands of screaming teeny girl Blur fans. J had a reputation as a formidable slacker, and I was somewhat anxious that he might not be a good conversationalist. I figured despite my stint as a bass player in Friendly Fire™, J might feel he had little in common with a 15 year old public schoolboy. Lo and behold when I finally fought my way into the tent proferring a T-shirt for him to sign, he barely smiled, let alone talked. He just scrawled a big J on my t-shirt before I was hustled out again. No rock 'n' roll banter, no words of advice for an aspiring musician, just a stupid J in fat felt tip pen. I realised then that idolatry is not a two way street.
Clooney ranks way out in front of all the disasterous celeb rendez-vous I've had. I attended Sophie Dahl's Valentine's Ball at Claridge's last year. Clooney was in town promoting Confessions of a Dangerous Mind. There were a bucket load of celebs at the ball: before sighting Clooney I'd been dancing with Phillip Treacy and Isabella Blow. But basically I was gob-smacked to see Clooney in person. He's easily in my top 5 favourite actors, on the basis of ER, O Brother, and Ocean's 11. I was itching to talk to him; I had something trite in mind like, "Your performance in ER inspired me to be a doctor." I was much too drunk on champagne cocktails to get it together. Anyway after about five minutes gawping at George with my cute friend Martina, one of the Rothschild heirs saunters over and plucks up the courage to talk to George. This Rothschild kid has a thick beard and a really stupid trucker hat, so I mistook him for a schmo, not a billionaire. Retrospectively it's obvious that only a billionaire should have the presumption to muscle past Clooney's minders to bother him with inane chatter. Anyway the punk-ass Rothschild makes it seem like Clooney welcomes interruption from star struck fans (he's deep in smoochy conversation with husky voiced ex-girlfriend Mariella Frostrup as this point). After about a couple of bottles of champagne and much encouragement for the afore-mentioned cute friend, I finally try to approach George. He's surrounded by huge bodyguards sitting on the arms of his sofa, so I have to almost kneel at his feet. He absolutely studiously ignores me, refusing to catch my eye for even a second. After about 30 seconds I start to freak out, realising that if he really won't acknowledge me there's no dignified way to back out. After about one minute my knees are starting to ache, and all my friends have also realised my awful predicament, and are laughing much too loudly for comfort. Finally after maybe two minutes, which seems like a hour, George still hasn't even glanced my way, I admit defeat and crawl away humiliated to drown my sorrows.
Three heroes who were incredible in the flesh.
1 Douglas Adams
2 Evan Dando
3 The Beastie Boys
Like every other celeb that dies young Douglas Adams has been canonised by his fans. In 1994 my parents decided to sell their house, and Douglas was one of the first prospective buyers to look around. Back then I was enough of a fan that I had read all his books, and could quote chunks of Hitchhiker's by heart. That enthusiasm has since waned. However when on a summer evening Mr Adams came through our front door I was majorly impressed. He was massively tall, easily 6' 4", and eerily graceful. He was polite, charming, even witty. He signed all my books, and seemed to me to be much more like a real author than my dad. He never made an offer for the house, but moved in a few doors away.
At the height of grunge Nirvana, Mudhoney and Soundgarden were the hip bands to be into. The Lemonheads were a sort of guilty pleasure. Fluffy and airy with funny lyrics and catchy melodies. Evan Dando was a total heart-throb. I aped his long-haired laid-back style, in the hope that it would lend me the same facility with the ladies. After Kurt died it was strongly rumoured that Evan had been sleeping with Courtney, and promptly the Lemonheads broke up. Evan disappeared to Martha's Vineyard to concentrate on his drug addictions. Holidaying on the Vineyard in 1995 I saw him walking on the beach. He looked awesome, every inch a sex symbol. It's not the done thing on the Vineyard to hassle celebs, so I didn't. Subsequently two really hot friends of mine met him in New York. He ended up snogging both of them in succession in the back of a taxi. That's what I consider proper abuse of celebrity status. I remain a fan.
An ex-girlfriend hooked me up with access all areas passes to the Beastie Boys 1995 European tour. I'll admit to being a relative latecomer to Beastie Mania, but by 95 I was a huge huge fan. Ill Communication was the dopest record I'd ever heard. At Brixton Academy I got introduced to all three Beasties, and Adam Horowitz's then wife Ione Skye. They were totally cool. Relaxed, charming and chatty. As ever they played an amazing set, and they remain my absolute heroes.
That's my compendium of highs and lows complete. Although sometimes I've felt hard done by, I don't really believe that celebs owe anything, even a signature, to their fans. I have little to conclude from these encounters, just that being a fan can be unrewarding, and that being a role-model is probably more tiresome than it looks.
Three heroes who were disappointing in the flesh.
1 Quentin Tarantino
2 J Mascis
3 George Clooney
My script doctor friend Tom MacRae is a former Bafta winner. On the basis of this he somehow bagged tickets for the premiere of Kill Bill Volume 1 in Leicester Square last year. We got to walk up the yellow "red" carpet past the paparazzi, and somehow blagged our way into the VIP bar. We got to hobnob with lots of B-listers, including Eubank and Jonathan Woss who was wearing a stupid yellow jump suit. As the crowds filed through to take their seats we hung back. Quentin came blitzing past with Uma Thurman and Daryl Hannah in tow. He's famous as a film geek made good, but I was unprepared for his extreme nerdiness. He was massively obese, incredibly ugly, and so badly dressed. Up on stage he introduced the cast and gave a dorky speech hyping the movie. I loved Kill Bill 1, but was shocked how unglamourous QT is. It's impossible to look good standing next to Uma, but Quentin isn't really trying.
J Mascis is one of the forgotten gods of grunge. His band Dinosaur Jr consisted of just him and a lot of different guitars. Where You Been is my favourite rock album ever. I was totally obsessed with the record from about 91 until 94. Dinosaur Jr played at the 93 Reading Festival, and apart from Pavement and the Lemonheads they were one of the main acts I wanted to see. J Mascis had agreed to a session in the signing tent, and I got totally psyched about having a chance to meet him. Damon Albarn was signing just ahead of J's slot, so I had to queue for four hours in the blazing sun with thousands of screaming teeny girl Blur fans. J had a reputation as a formidable slacker, and I was somewhat anxious that he might not be a good conversationalist. I figured despite my stint as a bass player in Friendly Fire™, J might feel he had little in common with a 15 year old public schoolboy. Lo and behold when I finally fought my way into the tent proferring a T-shirt for him to sign, he barely smiled, let alone talked. He just scrawled a big J on my t-shirt before I was hustled out again. No rock 'n' roll banter, no words of advice for an aspiring musician, just a stupid J in fat felt tip pen. I realised then that idolatry is not a two way street.
Clooney ranks way out in front of all the disasterous celeb rendez-vous I've had. I attended Sophie Dahl's Valentine's Ball at Claridge's last year. Clooney was in town promoting Confessions of a Dangerous Mind. There were a bucket load of celebs at the ball: before sighting Clooney I'd been dancing with Phillip Treacy and Isabella Blow. But basically I was gob-smacked to see Clooney in person. He's easily in my top 5 favourite actors, on the basis of ER, O Brother, and Ocean's 11. I was itching to talk to him; I had something trite in mind like, "Your performance in ER inspired me to be a doctor." I was much too drunk on champagne cocktails to get it together. Anyway after about five minutes gawping at George with my cute friend Martina, one of the Rothschild heirs saunters over and plucks up the courage to talk to George. This Rothschild kid has a thick beard and a really stupid trucker hat, so I mistook him for a schmo, not a billionaire. Retrospectively it's obvious that only a billionaire should have the presumption to muscle past Clooney's minders to bother him with inane chatter. Anyway the punk-ass Rothschild makes it seem like Clooney welcomes interruption from star struck fans (he's deep in smoochy conversation with husky voiced ex-girlfriend Mariella Frostrup as this point). After about a couple of bottles of champagne and much encouragement for the afore-mentioned cute friend, I finally try to approach George. He's surrounded by huge bodyguards sitting on the arms of his sofa, so I have to almost kneel at his feet. He absolutely studiously ignores me, refusing to catch my eye for even a second. After about 30 seconds I start to freak out, realising that if he really won't acknowledge me there's no dignified way to back out. After about one minute my knees are starting to ache, and all my friends have also realised my awful predicament, and are laughing much too loudly for comfort. Finally after maybe two minutes, which seems like a hour, George still hasn't even glanced my way, I admit defeat and crawl away humiliated to drown my sorrows.
Three heroes who were incredible in the flesh.
1 Douglas Adams
2 Evan Dando
3 The Beastie Boys
Like every other celeb that dies young Douglas Adams has been canonised by his fans. In 1994 my parents decided to sell their house, and Douglas was one of the first prospective buyers to look around. Back then I was enough of a fan that I had read all his books, and could quote chunks of Hitchhiker's by heart. That enthusiasm has since waned. However when on a summer evening Mr Adams came through our front door I was majorly impressed. He was massively tall, easily 6' 4", and eerily graceful. He was polite, charming, even witty. He signed all my books, and seemed to me to be much more like a real author than my dad. He never made an offer for the house, but moved in a few doors away.
At the height of grunge Nirvana, Mudhoney and Soundgarden were the hip bands to be into. The Lemonheads were a sort of guilty pleasure. Fluffy and airy with funny lyrics and catchy melodies. Evan Dando was a total heart-throb. I aped his long-haired laid-back style, in the hope that it would lend me the same facility with the ladies. After Kurt died it was strongly rumoured that Evan had been sleeping with Courtney, and promptly the Lemonheads broke up. Evan disappeared to Martha's Vineyard to concentrate on his drug addictions. Holidaying on the Vineyard in 1995 I saw him walking on the beach. He looked awesome, every inch a sex symbol. It's not the done thing on the Vineyard to hassle celebs, so I didn't. Subsequently two really hot friends of mine met him in New York. He ended up snogging both of them in succession in the back of a taxi. That's what I consider proper abuse of celebrity status. I remain a fan.
An ex-girlfriend hooked me up with access all areas passes to the Beastie Boys 1995 European tour. I'll admit to being a relative latecomer to Beastie Mania, but by 95 I was a huge huge fan. Ill Communication was the dopest record I'd ever heard. At Brixton Academy I got introduced to all three Beasties, and Adam Horowitz's then wife Ione Skye. They were totally cool. Relaxed, charming and chatty. As ever they played an amazing set, and they remain my absolute heroes.
That's my compendium of highs and lows complete. Although sometimes I've felt hard done by, I don't really believe that celebs owe anything, even a signature, to their fans. I have little to conclude from these encounters, just that being a fan can be unrewarding, and that being a role-model is probably more tiresome than it looks.
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