Rarely in my "career" as a writer and performer have I been
starstruck in the presence of fame, but when you add astonishing physical
beauty to the equasion, then weak at the knees I go and transformed
am I, into Mr Rabid Groupie Man. Forget the pleasantries, Forget rationality,
Forget integrity.... Forget the interview. Hands up, I came, I saw,
I died an embarrassing death. Heather...come back! I love you baby...
Ladies and gentlemen, I leave you with my account of an evening with
"HEATHER, DON'T LEAVE ME THIS WAY" - a short narrative
in 3 parts by N.C of Atomicduster
Heather Nova is singing and softly strumming a guitar in an acoustic
concert. She is wearing a backless dress with her hair tied up and performs
barefooted on Persian carpets, looking something like an angel floating
before the unworthy. Understandably her audience comprises of men in
their 30's upwards who like me, have delusions of being alone with this
Siren. Probably semi-naked on a beach somewhere in Bermuda and not at
the Glee club in Brum. Beggars can't be choosers.
After the show she signs copies of her new book which contains poems
and "mystical" thoughts from the singer like we care about
that! Words are not enough I want flesh and I'm waiting backstage, she
will be mine...oh yes.
Your faithful reporter has now balgged his way (with charm and wit I
have procured the security code sequence) into Heather Nova's empty
dressing room, desperatley looking for discarded items of her clothing
that I can steal or at least sniff, to get a more detailed idea of what
I'm dealing with of course.
No underwear unfortunately but I'll settle for a T-shirt, anything that
experienced contact with her skin. Dedication is all you need, that's
my moto. I spy with my little eye a half eaten ceaser salad which may
or may not have been partly consumed by a Goddess...I tuck in...Is this
normal you ask? I don't care, all reasoning has long left me since the
moment I saw those lips! Those lips that ate from the Ceaser Salad.
We both like salad, a sign.
Enter Heather Nova with her entourage of talkative session players who
walk humbly in her wake. Bizzarely no-one notices me, good, they obviously
feel at home with me around.
All talking stops as this indie diva becomes the focus of all our attentions.
She leans against the wall sipping from a bottle, I notice that she
is standing closest to me...Groupie logic takes over...It's another
sign, surely of all the places she could stand in this room, she chose
to stand next to me....quids in.
I look down at my dictaphone and press record, I'm gonna get her voice
on tape...it can soothe me on cold winters nights. In horror I realise
that my tape is full with an interview with the cooler than cool Sandy
Dillon who an hour earlier gave me a machine gun interview (200 words
per minute). Chunk Chunk rewind, goes the machine, I draw attention
to myself and quickly hide the machine down the back of trousers before
anyone realises their is an alien in the room.
That's that out the window then.
She turns towards me and begins to open her mouth as if to say something...
"Oh, my God, you were fanatastic and you look so beautiful Heather,
you know, we should get together for a writing session..."
Sandy squeals appearing from nowhere and there is no escape as these
two divas enter into a backslapping session to which I am only a witness.
I'm losing my thunder here, gotta say something, anything..
"Err howz the Err book going?".
All eyes look at this lowly insect of a man.
"Yeah, not bad."
She immediately turns back to her conversation with Sandy Dillon
Is that it, have I come this far just for three words. Never!
Interruption is my only hope
"Err those Persian carpets...are they Err real?"
"No, just some cheap rugs we got from the market"
I respond wide eyed,
"Ahh, you see, because my Err Mother, she's Persian"
....the ground opens up and swallows me.
The entourage and Sirens slowly leave the room continuing their conversation
and leave my life...forever.