12/16/2023 0 Comments Dope magazine prank bar![]() ![]() Sickness, fatigue and over-famliliarity have left their mark on inter-band relations: Graham is grumpy and drinking too much, he thinks Alex is being a tosser Alex and Damon aren’t seeing eye to eye, Damon thinksAlex is taking too many drugs and overdoing the pop star bit Alex thinks Graham and Damon have sided against him and that Damon is becoming a little too megalomaniac for his liking. Phil, Damon reckons, is a great geezer to have around.īut when Alex is seen stumbling towards the tour bus the following morning, all stained-glass eyes and furry tongue, he can but croak one word of explanation for his condition and that word, accompanied by a rueful shake of his formidable fringe, is “Daniels”. Football aside, the two communicate in a series of private jokes, knowing smirks and sideways glances. Both he and Damon are dedicated and knowledgeable Chelsea fans and are soon baffling non-followers with talk of near post misses, four across the back and Dennis Wise’s ability to run off the ball. For the band, the chirpy thespian’s presence is seen as a blessing and curse, for he is marvellous company but also something of an unwise bedtime specialist. “That, you see, is the fundamental problem with your Italians”, “You wanna put a bit of mustard on that, be lovely”, “What? League or cup? We’ll destroy ’em.” Phil Daniels, for it is he, is joining the tour whenever his acting work permits, to give the live version of Parklife the official seal of authenticity. “Get this shit off.” Oasis’s (What’s the Story) Morning Glory? is unceremoniously ejected from the machine and the singer returns serenely to his nutritious vegetarian repast.Īcross the room, a familiar voice is dispensing chunky knit philosophy and by the-yard advice to anyone listening. “Fucking hell,” he snaps, moving with gathering speed towards the catering ghetto blaster. Frowning now, he radars in on the source of his discomfort. Suddenly he jerks to attention, ears pricked. (It transpires that all of the members of Blur, Alex excluded, practise an hour’s Tie Kwan Do – the ancient martial art of punching things – prior to the evening’s performance, in order to exercise limbs, exorcise demons and focus their inscrutable minds on the task in hand.) Damon noisily tucks into a plate of potatoes and sweetcorn and studies the sports section of a roadie-discarded Daily Mirror. He is wearing, one can’t escape but notice, a karate outfit. His speaking voice, Estuary vowels with Cambridge cornering, is surprisingly deep and sibilantly precise. That and a smile that could charm the birds out of the trees. Or the combination of Pinocchio’s nose and Steve McQueen’s eyes. He’s a dishy fellow – something to do with the fair hair and dark lashes. THE FIRST TIME WE ENCOUNTER Damon Albarn in the offstage flesh, he pads barefoot into the makeshift backstage canteen in Cardiff Arena. A ‘flu bug – the dreaded Blurgi – has most of the band and crew on powerful antibiotics.”This particular strain of ‘flu,” improvises Alex, embarking on one of many flights of intellectual fancy,”is due to the fact that the Chinese farm their pigs alongside their ducks.” “Shut up, you bollocker,” says Graham. It’s been a phenomenally successful but physically gruelling year. “Aaaliix! “,”Graaay-yum!” And, when they get really over-excited, “Dave!” Blur are on the home straight of a six-month tour. You can almost smell the hormonal rush that greets the introductions to Tracy Jacks, End Of A Century and Charmless Man, and the ballads For Tomorrow and The Universal prompt outbreaks of uninhibited shrieking. These are the songs the audience have come for. The set list serves as a neat resume of the band’s six-year career: there’s a spattering of cod-psychedelia, some panic-stricken hardcore and even a soupqon of easy listening, but, for the most part, the set calls upon the misty-eyed melodramas and salty English vignettes that formed Parklife and The Great Escape. Up on the Wembley Arena stage, the four members of Blur – Damon Albarn, Graham Coxon, Alex James and Dave Rowntree – augmented by keyboards and a brass section, are mid-way through their two-hour show. It is shortly before Christmas and Blur mania has gripped, if not the whole world, then certainly a good proportion of Middlesex. Blur | Q Magazine – March 1996 Stop the band, I wanna get off!Īre BLUR really going to the dogs? Behind all the adoring screams, we hear internal bickering, the tell-tale snii-ii-i-iff! of media -centric decadence, a hollow champagne clink… Adrian Deevoy finds them on the edge of a verge of a nervous break-up: “Bands just fizzle out, don’t they?”Īlex James, Blur’s louche bass player, has a joke.”What’s 40 yards long, has no pubes and goes ‘Aaaaaaah!’?” ![]()
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