Celebrity

Anyway,
there I am looking so 1972 with a big shirt collar and a porno moustache
to boot, being seriously assertive while saying nothing of any substance.
Once I’d got over the shock of seeing myself looking so fucking young,
I was immediately reminded of a number of similar interviews I’ve seen
on telly with serious young (male) musicians in the past couple of years, to
which my instinctive response is, ‘these guys don’t know as much
as they think they do’.
The most telling part for me is when Stephen addresses a question to Glyn about
writing for the band, at which Glyn mutters something vaguely hopeful with his
eyes desperately trying to find a convenient horizon, but, reading between the
lines he’s clearly saying, ‘You think I’m gonna get the opportunity
to write for the band with Mr Porno in charge?’
And, when you look at the young me, you can tell that I’ve had a taste
of the celebrity drug; in fact, I’m still a little bit high on it, and
while I’m not going to bend over backwards to score some more, you can
tell I think I deserve it.
There have been too many articles and theses on the cult of celebrity for me
to dwell on and analyse the subject – however, I don’t think it’s
necessarily facile to suggest that it mirrors and complements our choice of
political and economic systems. Not that I think the (political) alternatives
are any more palatable, no matter how altruistically they begin, but, jeez,
the whole pack of cards as it stands is predicated on mass mood swings. Or mass
hysteria, as we know it. The marriage between celebrity and politics
is already consummated, so it seems only a matter of time before it all goes
too far and we get another cleansing wave of puritanism led by some Cromwellian,
well, celebrity. Let’s just hope he’s not into Death Metal..