So... in a surreal twist that brings my sad and bitter existence even closer to that of Liz Jones, a rock star has entered my life too. Well, 3 in fact. For the past days I've been hanging out with 3 of the original members of a fairly legendary rock band.
And what is a girl to wear for an occasion like that? I figured I'd leave the usual groupie garments for the slim and slender twentysomethings (so that they in turn could leave them on the floor of the rock stars' hotel rooms) and decided to rock a Chanel jacket instead. With black skinny jeans.Which, again (as the pictures from that weekend prove) look anything but skinny on me...
I'm not going to name names, but trust me, it's a band you know. Even if you don't know you do. They are responsible for some of those iconic rock songs everybody knows. But let's face it- their heyday was round about the time I was born. Which means that my Dad was the only person who was starstruck by my new venture. They still have a bit of a cult status, and it quickly became obvious why (though anything with a cult status usually comes with lightsaber-wielding, cape-wearing saddos camping outside cinema in a bid to get the best seats for the next Star Wars film...). They truly are legends, on and off the stage.
Their fans on the other hand are a...special bunch. Greying ponytails and beer bellies galore. Greasy-haired, spectacle-wearing, overweight women that haven't had a boyfriend since...well, ever. And a couple of fairly fierce-looking Russian women, shamelessly throwing themselves at the band. Everywhere they went, they had people following them in a trance-like state. And there was me, with the press pass dangling from my neck, just hanging out with my new best friends- the world-famous rock stars. I know I must sound like a total groupie right now but I must say it was pretty cool. Even if my actual job description got stretched a bit: in addition to the interviews I did with the guys I also found myself booking tables, shopping for beans, negotiating bills and arranging for football matches to be shown. Liverpool's no less. Ok, I think I might be a bit of a groupie.
The guys themselves were brilliant and so much fun. We really got on and the banter never stopped. I can't believe I'm getting paid for something like that! And then there was the manager. Oooooh, The Manager...
I have such a crush on The Manager. He must be even older than The Man, but you know I like my men the way I like my wine (no, not French and pretentious, not anymore anyway): mature and full-bodied. And he's got this... something you can't quite put your finger on. Je ne sais quoi? Something he knows he has and isn't afraid to flaunt it. It's in that sparkle in his eyes, it's in the way he jokes, it's in the way he makes you feel special around him. Ok, so he is a Liverpool fan, but he's also Jewish!!!
Even the crew picked up on the spark between us. But then again... how much of that was calculated? I mean, that's what he does for living, right? Making people like him and persuading them to do things his way?
And he clearly does his work well: he's worked with like, everyone. The Man would have loved his stories from the road with all his idols. I would have loved to have him all to myself.
The days we spent with the band were so crazy intense and when the time came to say our thank yous and goodbyes it was strange realizing that most of them (any of them?) I'll never see again.
Good job there's Facebook then.
Oh God, I am a groupie...
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