» Rock and Roll Stories

Moby Broke My Toilet
A while back I used to interview visiting pop starlets for the local listings mag. I was on a roll too, having managed to have the last go on the soon-to-be-dead guy out of The Shaman (remember them?) only the month before.
This time it was the the turn of Moby, on his first UK tour and riding high in the charts with his monsyllabic rave anthem *Go!*.

The gig was fantastic, repetitive beats slammed out of the dry ice & every so often a tiny bald head appeared from behind a euphoric wall of piano breakdowns to yell the title of his monster hit. In keeping with the intelligent pop star image the little chap was cultivating, his girlfriend sat in the wings throughout, ignoring the show and reading Dostoyevsky.

After his slot our born again vegan hero retired back stage, only to find his tiny dressing room full of the gak-hoovering monster mates of the promoters intent on forcing all kinds of chemical up his self righteously drug free nostrils. It was with these gentlemen he was spending the night. There was no chance of conducting an interview in this environment and little Moby obviously extremely uncomfortable, looking more like a terrified rabbit than a future producer of classy advertising muzak. So back to my place he came, girlfriend in tow, to stay in my spare room.

In morning, he behaved oddly, refusing to touch toast because *there may be something in the bread*... apparently orange juice and muesli were fine. He then disappeared to the loo, after which I was to give him a lift to his train.

He was gone for some time.

Eventually I decided to see if he was OK. Just as I was about to knock on the door, he rushed out, muttering he was ready to go.

In the car he was very quiet.

After dropping him at the station, I returned home & noticed a puddle under the toilet door. A glance inside was all it took!

The floor was soaked! The cistern handle was hanging off, paper strewn over the floor and in the bowl nestled a single, perfect popstar turd.

I washed it away with a bucket of water. The repairs cost me £40.
(Fri 30th Jun 2006, 16:56, More)

» Walkman Flashbacks

Moby - Go!
A while back I used to interview visiting pop starlets for the local listings mag. I was on a roll too, having managed to have the last go on the soon-to-be-dead guy out of The Shamen (remember them?) only the month before.

This time it was the the turn of Moby, on his first UK tour and riding high in the charts with his monsyllabic rave anthem *Go!*.

The gig was fantastic, repetitive beats slammed out of the dry ice & every so often a tiny bald head appeared from behind a euphoric wall of piano breakdowns to yell the title of his monster hit. In keeping with the intelligent pop star image the little chap was cultivating, his girlfriend sat in the wings throughout, ignoring the show and reading Dostoyevsky.

After his slot our born again vegan hero retired back stage, only to find his tiny dressing room full of the gak-hoovering monster mates of the promoters intent on forcing all kinds of chemical up his self righteously drug free nostrils. It was with these gentlemen he was spending the night. There was no chance of conducting an interview in this environment and little Moby obviously extremely uncomfortable, looking more like a terrified rabbit than a future producer of classy advertising muzak. So back to my place he came, girlfriend in tow, to stay in my spare room.

In morning, he behaved oddly, refusing to touch toast because *there may be something in the bread*... apparently orange juice and muesli were fine. He then disappeared to the loo, after which I was to give him a lift to his train.

He was gone for some time.

Eventually I decided to see if he was OK. Just as I was about to knock on the door, he rushed out, muttering he was ready to go.

In the car he was very quiet.

After dropping him at the station, I returned home & noticed a puddle under the toilet door.

I glanced inside.

The floor was soaked! The cistern handle was hanging off, paper strewn over the floor and in the bowl nestled a single, perfect popstar turd.

I washed it away with a bucket of water. The repairs cost me £40.

To this day, whenever I hear *Go!*, I feel a little bald head rush past me, just out of my line of vision.
(Tue 29th Mar 2005, 15:45, More)