April 8th, 2010

Brush with Fame: Malcom McLaren

With the passing of rock impresario Malcom McLaren, I recalled when I met him and offended him. Below is the text from a podcast about my misadventures with the famous.

Podcast link: http://www.diabeticincandyland.com/2008/06/08/dic-17-brushes-with-fame/

Prague, 1994

In the summer of 1994 I worked as a barback at Radost FX, an exclusive disco in Prague. Yes, in Europe they call it a disco without a sneer of irony. This was the kind of place designed to keep people like me far behind the velvet rope. Yet, the generous Serbian couple that owned the place allowed all well-behaved staff to attend any function.

That summer Malcolm McLaren held his launch party for his album Paris in the disco. McLaren put the Sex Pistols into the public eye with the subtlety of a shot of mace. By then, he had moved onto his own projects, yet his contorversial presence made the event. I trudged my way downstairs, past the two Serbian doormen each with glock 9mm’s holstered on their belts. In the main bar, techno music raced and chugged and the waiters carried trays of champagne in thin, test tube like glasses, all dressed in orange dayglow southern belle hoop skirts embroidered with Christmas lights. The crowd were either dressed in smart suits and dresses or like me, in whatever rags I could stitch together after crawling out of a junkie den on all fours.

The Australian woman I had crush on, her hair in that girlish bob and who treated everyone like she was their #1 fan, stood at the far end of the bar. She was old enough to be my mother, which fascinated me even more. Her equally beautiful daughter worked in the coffee bar, yet she lacked the grace and sweetness of her mother. So I walked up and she turned to me, her bob swishing in my direction and smiled, put her arms on my shoulders and stood on her toes and kissed my cheek. I turned into a warm puddle on the floor. We talked some and McLaren’s entourage floated around the disco on currents of curiosity. Then I saw his bright red fro and hawkish face look toward the Australian Goddess and his entourage floated toward her like a school of tuna spotting fresh prawns. He stepped up to her, introduced himself and started talking to her. I turned to the bar and ordered two Pilsner Urquells then drank them before they turned bitter-warm.

What I did next was witnessed trough a haze of beer foam, but I sidled next to the Australian Goddess and tired to stake a claim. The C-block is likened to a military maneuver – it can be either a sniper shot or an air strike. I think I went for the carpet bomb and insulted him somehow and he turned away from us and herd him squeak “Cunt” as his entourage floated away. My Australian goddess slipped away into the crowd and I didn’t see her again that night.