It’s 1988 and heady being back at work after such a long interval. Seven years have passed since packing in Sainsbury’s, during which time I got myself further-educated: two A-levels out of three, and one Bachelor of Arts — not that anybody here asked to see my certificates. This is rock’n’roll.
The interview was held in what I presumed to be a storeroom, with back issues of my beloved music weekly stacked all around us. James Brown, features editor, asked the questions; I felt like a band being interviewed for the paper.
‘What was the last LP you bought?’
I found myself perched upon the knife’s edge of credibility with this innocuous enquiry, selecting Surfer Rosa by the Pixies over the more truthful Raintown by Deacon Blue. It was risky — James would have known that the Pixies came out three months ago. Perhaps he’d think I hadn't bought an LP since March.
Quickly, I threw in the Full Metal Jacket soundtrack. Vietnam scores points at the NME.
‘Who are your favourite bands?’
The Fall — obviously! — The Jesus and Mary Chain, Cocteau Twins ... I also boldly confessed to a liking for the great toons of George Gershwin. (It’s a Woody Allen thing.)
James raised his eyebrows ambiguously. Good? Bad? Had I blown it?
‘How often do you go to gigs?'
I swallowed hard and considered massaging the figures, but instead recklessly gave him the truth: about once a month.
‘Good. We want someone who’s mature.’
James Brown is twenty-two. A year younger than me.
