If you're a regular reader of my blog (who am I kidding?) you may recall last week, refering to Les Ardentes festival I said: "the odds of some paranoia-fuelled face-painted diplomatic incident are raised threefold. " Have a look, it was in the previous post. Never mind the public, I should read it on a regular basis and save myself some grief. But any way here's how it panned out...
"You'll always find us out to lunch"
I spent the Sunday in a variety of suits, jackets etc. introducing the bands, and always took a moment to introduce myself to the artist(s), asking if they had any special requirements to include. Most of them just said do what you want, the introduction concept is alien to the U.K. certainly and probably other places, but in mainland Europe it's a tradition. Either way, I met polite friendly people who appreciated being consulted, and felt I was doing my job with some finesse. It helped that I was English as well, as most of the bands were UK/US origin.
I'd been dying to silver up and present bands in my current 'Android 80' look, but the fierce temperatures throughout the weekend prevented it, until after seven pm on the last day.
When I hit the stage as chrome-headed saville row-bot it went down a storm, but it's not like a hat that you can take off, once in place it's there for the night, so I spent the time between spots waliking amongst the crowd.
After introducing 'Archive' I had the best part of two hours before introducing P.I.L., and it had been intimated to me that no introduction was necessary on their part. So, I figured let's find out and if that's the case, then I'll hit the shower and enjoy the show. I went backstage and found the P.I.L. dressing rooms. They were flimsy pre-fab cabins and it was easy to look through the gap between door and wall to see inside, and all three were empty. Obviously it was dinner time, so I returned to the festival and watched a bit of the show.
"There's no point in asking you'll get no reply"
Common sense would've left it at that, but if truth be known I wanted to meet John Lydon and I'd been nipping at the Jack Daniels all day, so off I trooped to the dressing rooms again.
Upon arriving I peeked in the first and saw naught but a booze-strewn table (sorry this is all going a bit Goldilocks...well more Silverhead and the three punks), in the second a member of the band seemed to be throwing something over the partition, and in the third Mr Lydon was throwing it back. His laughing expression was that of a child blissfully lost in playful reverie, my trepidation had been unfounded, I was in for another pleasant encounter. Wrong. I knocked on the door and it flimsily swung open. He came toward me and I said "Scuse me John..." His expression went through a range of confusion, rage, outrage and confusion again all in a matter of seconds before settling into the one we all know and love. I'd not even considered my appearance, having been like that for the last four hours, but I'm sure it didn't help matters. He gave me the look - you know the one, that paint-stripping venomous stare immortalised in the "Anarchy..." clip, then started shouting "Out! Out! Out!" I stuttered to explain, he cut me off with "Leave! and I'm being polite..." but his face was saying run for your life.
I left.
20 minutes later I found myself at the back of the stage, still not knowing if my services were required, but unable to leave in case they should be, and frankly not relishing the next few minutes. The band and entourage arrived in one car, and a guy known as Rambo began clearing the area of dispensable personnel. Myself and the stage manager were allowed to stay. A second car arrived and J.L. emerged, climbing the steps and pacing like a caged animal. He made no eye contact with anyone, then I was swiftly directed centre -stage to say my piece. I gave them a rousing introduction then legged it...
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