when will I be famous?
Bros are being plugged on the radio by Simon Bates. The only feasible reaction is to despise them.
Our favoured tunes include Prefab Sprout, Lloyd Cole, Scritti Politti, Prince, The Smiths, Jesus and Mary Chain, James Brown, the Housemartins, the Redskins, the Blow Monkeys. The tinny sound coming out of the radio is music for a nothing generation. In those days pop could still get away with politics. From Costello to Weller to Bragg through to The The and pure pop like The Communards. This Bros sound is garish and narcissistic. It has no place in the little house with the blue door.
Depite Bates’ relentless plugging, the single goes nowhere. It washes over the other side of the little house and lands on a derelict shore. It seems that Bros are destined never to be.
+++
A year or so later, the machine is up and working. I’ve moved to London, Bros are on the crest of a wave. Pop was sliding into the vortex.
+++
A year or so later, Bros’s bubble has burst. The second or third album tanks. Other boy bands are waiting to steal their short-lived crown.
It’s the nineties. Dorian Grey is resident in the aforementioned King’s Road warehouse-temple of C-list celebrity, The Garage.
A clean cut white man, about my age, walks into the stall with a bulky black bodyguard/ assistant. The stall is about the size of a shoebox. The man rifles efficiently through both racks, a seasoned shopper. I place him. He’s a Goss twin.
He says he likes them. He buys about three shirts. As many as we sometimes sold in three days. A few weeks later he’s back. He buys four more. I start to warm to him. He likes our shirts. He puts his money where his mouth is. He says we’re ridiculously underpriced. A few weeks later, the bodyguard/ assistant comes back and buys some more. He says his boss likes the shirts.
Matt Goss comes back one more time. He looks tired. He’s got a solo album out. He knows it’s going to get slated. It does. He can’t be much more than twenty five and he’s yesterday’s man. He buys some more shirts. I wish him luck with the album. He says thanks. He tells me our shirts are really good. We have to stick at it.
Within six months, the Garage stint is over. I never see Matt Goss again. I will never be capable of feeling as ill-disposed towards his short-lived band as I was when I first heard its music on the radio. The wannabe refrain of their first single has somehow acquired an unimaginable pathos.
Our favoured tunes include Prefab Sprout, Lloyd Cole, Scritti Politti, Prince, The Smiths, Jesus and Mary Chain, James Brown, the Housemartins, the Redskins, the Blow Monkeys. The tinny sound coming out of the radio is music for a nothing generation. In those days pop could still get away with politics. From Costello to Weller to Bragg through to The The and pure pop like The Communards. This Bros sound is garish and narcissistic. It has no place in the little house with the blue door.
Depite Bates’ relentless plugging, the single goes nowhere. It washes over the other side of the little house and lands on a derelict shore. It seems that Bros are destined never to be.
+++
A year or so later, the machine is up and working. I’ve moved to London, Bros are on the crest of a wave. Pop was sliding into the vortex.
+++
A year or so later, Bros’s bubble has burst. The second or third album tanks. Other boy bands are waiting to steal their short-lived crown.
It’s the nineties. Dorian Grey is resident in the aforementioned King’s Road warehouse-temple of C-list celebrity, The Garage.
A clean cut white man, about my age, walks into the stall with a bulky black bodyguard/ assistant. The stall is about the size of a shoebox. The man rifles efficiently through both racks, a seasoned shopper. I place him. He’s a Goss twin.
He says he likes them. He buys about three shirts. As many as we sometimes sold in three days. A few weeks later he’s back. He buys four more. I start to warm to him. He likes our shirts. He puts his money where his mouth is. He says we’re ridiculously underpriced. A few weeks later, the bodyguard/ assistant comes back and buys some more. He says his boss likes the shirts.
Matt Goss comes back one more time. He looks tired. He’s got a solo album out. He knows it’s going to get slated. It does. He can’t be much more than twenty five and he’s yesterday’s man. He buys some more shirts. I wish him luck with the album. He says thanks. He tells me our shirts are really good. We have to stick at it.
Within six months, the Garage stint is over. I never see Matt Goss again. I will never be capable of feeling as ill-disposed towards his short-lived band as I was when I first heard its music on the radio. The wannabe refrain of their first single has somehow acquired an unimaginable pathos.
posted by maldoror at 10:08 p. m.
1 Comments:
I remember the bodyguard, curiously. I saw him in the DG shirt, and realised it didn't mean anything to me. That crazy place I suppose felt like an extension of something else, much more sinister, and shirts with wild collars and cuffs and oversize buttons weren't going to make much difference.
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