Ill-Placed Trust

I'm going to take a break from politics and religion for a moment and instead share with you an anecdote recanting my riotous college years, where I believed I was the epitome of my Converse All-Stars and cheaply dyed hair.

I was the perfect stereotype of the rude American, thrusting my autograph paper in front of Supergrass drummer Danny Goffey.



The picture to your left makes him look actually presentable. In reality, he looks quite a bit like a trogloydyte, but not nearly as much as his bandmate Gaz Coombes. (See below). Coombes makes Neil Young look attractive, unbelievably.


The picture doesn't do justice to the look Goffey flashed me. It was a look of hatred so profound that I immediately shrank away to a neutral corner. Fortunately, he did sign, with no small amount of resentment. It was as if he had no choice but to aquiesce to my arrogance.

Gaz was more blase about affixing his John Hancock to the yellow-lined paper, but he gave the appearance of having not bathed in five days or so. The stench was profound, but this didn't stop him from winning the attention of three groupies, one of whom I later spied with her arm round his waist around 2 am or so. That was later, however.

In the meantime, I talked to the members of The Coral, who were all around my age and in much better spirits. I had an awkward, but nonetheless jovial conversation with the lead singer, James Skelly, who is as shy as I am.

Introverts understand each other better than most and I had a pleasant chat with him despite the fact that he had a rough time deciphering my slight southern American drawl and I had a difficult time with his northern scouse. Our taste in music was quite similar.

Supergrass were old hands at touring America so they were more or less unfazed by their surrounding. It was The Coral's first American tour so they acted like tourists, soaking in their surroundings. They had the wide-eyed stares I've seen on many Brits perusing the U.S.A. on their first trip across the pond. All of the members and I got on like a roof on fire and I much preferred their company to that of Supergrass.

In the meantime, my friend was chatting up Supergrass bassist Mick Quinn who proved to be one of the most jovial, nicest people I have ever met. In response to the cavorting of his bandmate Gaz, he mentioned only that he had a wife and kids back home.

In the meantime, I was further embarrassing myself by doing lame Tony Wilson impersonations, much to the chagrin of the young black woman with 24 Hour Party People t-shirt on who was part of someone's entourage. From her sarcastic attitude, I assumed she must be somehow connected with Supergrass. When I was wasn't humored I was outright mocked. I was the perfect stereotype of the Yank: loud, pushy, idiotic, frequently doltish.

The scene backstage was kind of bizarre. Hangers-on and stragglers either intoxicated or inebriated on some unknown substance reigned supreme. I tried talking to a girl who couldn't string together anything more than a long string of non sequiturs, albeit with bitchy attitude.