"The use of the beard is most effecitve when in hip-hop." Carpetface, 2002
I think, and I might be wrong, because my memory, as you know, is an odd thing... but I think, I played three gigs before I moved to London.
The first was when I was eight or nine, in Ysgol Llangoed, North Wales. Myself and two girlfriends - one of whom I was hopelessly in love with and would go on to renounce men as sexual partners and become a stripper, the other of whom I would later have a thing with, and went on to get married, spawn and work in a petrol station. We mimed to the Human League's 'Don't You Want Me Baby'. I told everybody I'd recorded the song with Mike Peters from The Alarm's voice changing equipment. Mike Peters from The Alarm was a mate of my Dad's, was the reasoning. Only he wasn't. I later discovered they'd met, once.
Anyway. That gig was pretty hot. We performed in the middle of the school's main hall. We were called Ken And The Barbies. I was Ken, they were The Barbies. We'd rehearse in the playground, and for a small amount of time, I was cool. All was wonderful until Picky Vicky, so-called because she was spotted picking her nose once, came in brandishing her mother's copy of the Human League 12". I was rumbled, and went back to getting kicked in the face every day, seeking solace at the top of the playing fields, where I'd sing Adam Ant and Sisters of Mercy songs to myself and dream of pop stardom.
I wouldn't perform again until secondary school, at Ysgol Friars, Bangor. It was something to do with Children In Need, and I sang along to Vic Reeve's And The Wonderstuff's version of 'Dizzy' on the assembly hall stage. The show climaxed with me removing my denim jacket, swinging it by the sleeve, and throwing it into the crowd of amused school children, some of whom ironically brandished hastily constructed "we love you Adam" placards. Afterwards I had a fight with a boy called Raymond in a toilet and went home with a bloody nose. A pattern was beginning to emerge.
After I left home, and moved to the midlands, I formed a band called Narcotic with a goth called Alex, his ex-bandmate goth mate, whose name escapes me right now, and a dude called James who played drums in a Slayer tribute band. He had one of those double kick drum things, that go DOOGADOOGADOOGADOOGA! We kind of sounded like Nine Inch Nails doing Suede covers. We played out first gig in front of 500 teenage brummies at an under-sixteens party in Redditch Town Hall, and split up four songs into our set, when Alex threw his bass at the guitarist, who went right back at him with my mike stand. Drunk with the power that comes from applause, I got off with a girl I shouldn't have got off with and ended the night being chased over Redditch train station bridge by a bald lunatic with a pool cue (lunatics with pool cues plagued me in Redditch. There were enough pool cue incidents to fill an album. I'll get on to that one day).
My first gig in London, as part of the early naughties electro-rap combo Crack Village, was four songs long, and when it was over, I was stood atop a bass amp drooling sick out of the corners of my Spider-Man mask with an Irish ex-clown called Cormac's guitar down the front of my Spider-Man bottoms thinking we were still amidst the third song. I didn't fight anyone that night, but a new pattern had emerged. Amongst the audience were members of Ikara Colt, Marion (!), and a then unknown The Libertines. Since then I have not played a show where there hasn't been a slightly famous person in attendance. Those that have seen me drench myself in water and shout obnoxiously over other people's music include Kate Moss (leathery orange), Ken Livingstone (slippery), Bez (Bez), Chuck D (huge and wet), Neil Tennant (handsome and shiny), and Janet Street Motherfucking Porter (weirdly hot in real life). Aphex Twin came to a gig once, which sparked a nasty rumour that I was in some way an influence on Chris Morris' vision of Nathan Barley. So I wasn't too surprised to see motherfuckin PREACHER MAN smiling sweetly at me from the crowd last night (dude had a Karate Kid bandanna!). And I won't be surprised when Scarlet Johansen comes to a show, and declares her unyielding devotion. Jeres, I am still on course to win that bet.
However, I feel a new trend coming. Born of violence, of celebrity, and of lies. Probably you'll notice when it happens properly. Maybe I'll live through it. Maybe I won't.
In other news, my crack team of lawyers have been working day and night to get me out of a particularly sticky situation, and the end is closer than nigh. I amn't at liberty to discuss further at present, but I will say, Styles P, holla at my boys. (And you thought being owned by Puffy was a bitch. Sheez!)
Oh, and I don't think I've mentioned this before, but guess who's got his immortal-assed Pop Song prominently featured in the new Uma Thurman movie? Guess which Ghostbustin' assed director called Ivan Reitman personally picked the thing?
Yeah son, him.
Dude has taste.
Oh, speaking of which, I hear Ghostbusters III is happening. And Ben Stiller's joining the crew. SWEEEEEEEEEEET! Bill Murray thinks he's too good for it though. WEEEEEEEEEEEEEAK! Fuck him though, he can sit about being moody with Sophia Coppola, and the rest of the gang can shoot Ghosts with Ben Stiller. I dunno what Bill Murray's problem is. Bustin makes ME feel good.