Or why John Cooper Clarke is Heavy
Way back when, I was sat on the bottom of the stairs below the gallery in the Band on the Wall, Manchester. I was there to watch Victor Brox, an amazing blues and jazz musician reputed to be the favourite singer of both Hendrix and Tina Turner.
Although it was a fantastic set, some wise-guy from the gallery kept heckling him. Normally, that wouldn't have been a problem for a musician with the pedigree of Brox. But this heckler was good. He had half the audience in stitches with his pithy comments, and the band absolutely furious.
After some time, two bouncers pushed past me on the stairs, heading for the gallery. Things quietened down for a little while and Brox played on. Then without warning, during a particularly sensitive and quiet piano solo, there was a swallowed scream from above me. I turned just in time to see a mass of spiky black hair and pipe cleaner legs flying through the air and heading straight for me.
I just had time to think, "Oh! John Cooper..." before he landed square on my head. I lay stunned for a second on the floor. Then, as quickly as he flew, he was gone. His weight miraculously lifted. A bouncer had grabbed him by one arm and one leg and was carrying him bodily out of the club. Before I had chance to do anything, I too, was grabbed from the floor and ejected. I didn't even have time to protest my innocence.
After being dumped unceremoniously on the street, I looked up to see JCC primping himself. The genuine article, the self proclaimed 'Bard of Salford', the be-shaded, sugar puffing punk poet of Manchester, John Cooper Clarke.
He continued to primp. I continued to watch. Before I had a chance to form suitable words of greeting, the great JCC turned to me and said; "And f*** you too you scrawny wazzock", and disappeared cursing into the night. I stood there, not quite sure whether to be impressed or upset.
A true punk poet. And deceptively heavy. Respect.
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