ARTICLE BY NICK MASON for Tatler Magazine, September 1995
For the "Life's A Bitch" column (each written by a guest writer)
I don't mind most of the general
public wanting to be pop stars, but I draw the line at all the people
who should be happy with their lot trying to clamber aboard the stage
from their often rather privileged seats. I suppose it's all those
perks that excite them, but I feel the need to voice my protest against
the swelling numbers of tennis players, Hollywood movie stars,
comedians, soap stars and supermodels attempting to get in on the act.
Even the President of the United States can't leave well alone. Why
can't these rich, famous people be content with life's generous gifts,
instead of silting up the recording studios and television talk shows
with their musical offerings?
Even writers - who ought to know
better - form bands which take the bread and butter from impoverished
musicians. Whole teams of football players cram onto "Top of the Pops",
doubtless shortly to be joined by combos of snooker players, news
readers and, eventually, celebrity chefs. Marco Pierre White, Raymond
Blanc, Antony Worrall Thompson and Gary Rhodes could take over where
The Kinks left off, complete with on-stage tantrums.
The most likely explanation is
that, as these people see it, rock is ultimately the finest career of
all; it involves less work but more sex, pharmaceuticals and free
guitars than any other job. A vocabulary of 10 words or so is
sufficient ("man" "babe" and "hassle" figure strongly), while reading
and language skills need only be good enough to deal with room-service
menus and the funny labels on bottles of alcohol.
There is also the particular
bonus that bad behavior off-duty is considered virtually mandatory
("Good evening, Mr. Rose. This is the hotel manager speaking. May we
deliver another half-dozen televisions to your penthouse suite, or
would you rather we sent up some more of those loose women you ordered
earlier?"). Or is it that rock is perceived as being the career version
of the National Lottery? No previous experience necessary, no formal
training required. Anyone with a jutting chin, weak personality and
tight trousers is eligible - and hell, you don't even need the chin and
the trousers. Well, it's just not on. With very few exceptions, pop
musicians tend to toe the demarcation line. A little light acting is
occasionally indulged in, but a moral duty to avoid any exercise more
intense than rolling spliffs and waving a glass in the direction of the
roadie who's holding the champagne bottle ensures that few guitar
heroes will ever play at Wimbledon.
Frankly, the business is not what
it's cracked up to be, anyway. What money the managers, agents and
record companies don't deduct is skillfully removed by morally
challenged accountants. And any remaining loose change is neatly swept
up by the lawyers entrusted with suing the accountants. After that,
it's tax bills, the tabloid press ("My this, that and the other hell")
and debtor's prison.
The press disparage you for
losing your hair, gaining weight, finding God, saving whales, rain
forests or traction engines and generally growing old. A chill is felt
as the autograph-hunter with outstretched pen and faded vinyl album
says: "It's not for me, it's for my granny." Added to this, the BBC has
vast archives of you playing 25 years ago, sprouting a Zapata mustache,
loon pants and love beads.
All of this is bad enough, but
inevitably, there's also always a retrospective of the Sixties,
Seventies or Eighties taking place, in which not only the performances
but the interviews are dusted off and exhibited. And, as we know,
youthful pop stars pontificate, their pronouncements matching
Chamberlain's "Peace in our time" speech for embarrassment and accuracy
quotient.
The mind-numbingly dull questions
never improve and a quarter of a century of being asked how the band
got their name is bound to take its toll. You end up feeling like
something that belongs to the National Trust, but instead of selling
china plates and fudge, it's T-shirts and baseball caps.
If you're in a band, you're
locked into a relationship with two or three other lunatics who refuse
to do what you want and never say thank you in spite of the fact you do
all the work, but who insist on sharing the money. The record company
keeps trying to treat the whole thing as a business, with deadlines and
promotional activities. Many of these, while being eminently acceptable
to a teenage heart-throb, sit uncomfortably on a man of more mature
years. Unbelievably, photographers still want to shoot you jumping in
the air, 30 years after The Beatles did it. Sir Georg Solti never had
this trouble.
The last straw comes when you
discover that even the doorman has been with the company less time than
you. This goes to prove that it's not only policemen who are getting
younger, but record-company executives as well. Meanwhile, the fan mail
grows increasingly bizarre and there is an unrelenting flood of
cassette tapes from hopefuls who are unaware that the last thing you
would wish to encourage at this stage of the game is competition.
Oh well, I'm off to the job center to see if there's anything going in tennis or "Baywatch"."
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