My Mate Jimmy. I’ve been thinking about Iggy Pop all weekend. Probably because his music has been on my turntable pretty much non-stop for 72 hours. I am regretting not getting tickets to see him play at The Albert Hall this year. I knew I would. Damnit. Can’t do much about that now and I may never get to see him play live again. BUT…at least I can comfort myself with the fact that I met (stalked) him once.
So…pull up a chair, pour yourself a drink and listen to a Sunday Night Stingray Tale. I can’t promise there will be sting in it but I’ll do my best…
OK…Waaaay back in the seventies, June 28th 1978 to be ultra precise. I was in London with tickets to see David Bowie on his Low/Heroes tour and saw him for two nights out of three at Earl’s Court.
The afternoon before the first concert, I was with a mate in the basement of Chappells Music in Soho playing with Gibson Les Pauls and Fender Stratocasters that we couldn’t possibly afford. I was dimly aware of some manic Jerry Lee Lewis style piano being played in the background but was more interested in the Big Muff* I was plugged into at that point. After a while I made my way to the counter to purchase a plectrum to ease my guilty conscience, having spent an hour playing instruments I had no intention or means of buying.
The guy behind the till seemed to develop a twitch as we approached the counter and he started winking and nodding in the direction from which Great Balls of Fire was now emanating. I turned and looked across to see a raised plinth with a baby grand piano at which was seated a small black leather clad figure hammering out said tune. “Fuck me it’s Iggy Pop” came out of nowhere, either in my head or out loud , I’m not sure which. Anyway, it was him.
At this point, Iggy (for it was him) suddenly decided to leg it up the stairs and out eventually on to Oxford Street hotly pursued by two teenagers (for they were us). A comical 5 minutes or so ensued with Iggy stopping and looking back in our direction every 30 seconds as we instantly stopped and pretended to window shop at whatever store we were passing. Suddenly he was gone, disappeared up a side street hadn’t he, the little sneaker. We turned the corner where we had last saw him but he was nowhere to be seen godammit.
Then I noticed a small bookshop 50 yards up the street and dragged my friend towards it whilst shouting “I bet he’s gone to ground in there!”….
We entered the tiny bookshop and there was no one to be seen apart from a startled looking woman behind the till. In the corner was a spiral staircase leading down to the basement which I wasted no time making my way towards and descending. And….yes….there he was, pretending to look at some book of no significance.
At first he looked terrified, I think he thought we were after him to beat him up and I pretty much towered over him being about 6’3” to his wiry 5.5 ft frame. He then clocked the Bowie badges we were sporting and instantly relaxed saying “oh….yer heeear to see David!” in his amazingly laid back American drawl. We then talked about loads of stuff which was amazing and I’m sworn to secrecy but we parted company as mates for life (I thought so anyway). He even drew a little cartoon of me on the London A-Z we were carrying and signed it. If mobile phones had been invented we would have swapped contact details and I could have hung out with him and Dave at the Dorchester after the gig but we were too busy to bother with any of that so we just shook hands and bid farewell. He did stop and turn before he ascended up to the street (not Down On The Street) with the parting line: “Hey, do you guys know where I can get a pair of wire cutters?”. We didn’t unfortunately. I’ve been wondering about that for the last 38 years….
