88. Denim, Back in Denim (made 2007)

    Barely any of my friends really understand my obsession with Lawrence, the reclusive obsessive genius behind Felt, Denim and Go-Kart Mozart. Somewhat unsurprisingly, my fixation on this surnameless recluse began at an early age, simply by reading anecdotes. Did he really disown his father for being bald? Did he never let people do anything other than urinate in his toilet? Did he really stagger around the Glastonbury backstage area in muddy leathers, inconsolable that there were no “cottages for the popstars”? Incredible. I merely hoped his music was half as good as his backstory.

    So when I managed to find some Felt songs on Napster (I was young, OK?), all my fears were allayed: Primitive Painters is still one of the best songs of the eighties, and albums like Me and a Monkey on the Moon, and Stuart Murdoch’s favourite Poem of the River, were as beautiful as they were inscrutable. Thankfully, it was around this point that Cherry Red reissued the entire Felt back catalogue too, and I could finally spend money on my burgeoning habit. Even more fortunately, I had a partner in crime who shared my fondness for The Man Who Was Not With It – a girl named Annie.

    Although she never quite allowed herself to go as headlong into madness as I did (she insisted on drawing a line at Denim’s The New Potatoes and Go-Kart Mozart’s On a Building Site, the fool), we were always on hand to indulge each others’ love of all things Lawrence. At the height of our summer of twee, we even figured on starting a fanzine – entitled Storytelling – which would come with a Felt exclusive, as a way to entice hardened C86ers. Obviously, as precocious sixteen year old Situationists, this ‘exclusive’ would be little more than a piece of Fuzzy Felt stapled to each copy. Luckily for our developing sense of self-esteem, the zine never got made, but we continue to giggle about the idea – with a strange mix of pride and shame – to this day.

    One thing that our overexciteable teenage selves were always disappointed by, however, was the lack of merchandise for bands we liked. Obviously, having raised ourselves on a diet of the Rough Trade Indiepop 1 compilation, it was never the easiest of tasks to find a Talulah Gosh t-shirt or a Monochrome Set pin-badge. Then again, maybe we just liked having something to gripe about. Annie, ever the artist, decided to redress the balance for my eighteenth birthday in March 2007, by screenprinting me my very own Denim t-shirt – brown ink on the same shade of sky-blue that adorns the cover of their peerless debut Back in Denim. I was beside myself with joy when I got given that; of all the presents, no matter how expensive (sorry, parents) or incredibly thoughtful (sorry, girlfriend), this was the best of the lot.

    Yet, I could never quite bring myself to wear it. It was too great for display anywhere but behind a glass case. Not only that, but I’d managed to engineer a petty, immature falling-out with the wonderful human being who passed it my way too, thus warping my feelings towards the t-shirt in a way I could never have anticipated. I’d swallow my pride and break it out if I wanted a guaranteed comment at an indiepop club (I was, after all, an attention-hungry adolescent), or to show-off in a photoshoot for the nascent indiepop band I’d formed, but it was never something I could just wear. It was a testament to all the worst facets of my personality as a teenager, but nonetheless a symbol I could never quite part with.

    Nearly five years on, things are somewhat back to normal; although Annie and I live different lives in different cities, I managed to come to my senses and apologised for being a massive twazzock. As for the t-shirt, it still fits, but just kinda…sits there in the drawer, looking incredible pleased with itself – still as bright blue from underuse as when it was given to me. I own it so that I need never wear it; given the reclusive status of the man who inspired it, that seems as oddly fitting a fate as any.

    A footnote: A few months after being given the t-shirt, I had a first-hand encounter with the man himself in a Soho record store. Lawrence was casually perusing the CD racks when I noticed him – in his uniform of truckers cap, big bomber jacket, full-to-the-brim M&S bags – and after a little encouragement from my then-girlfriend, I nervously approached him, pen in hand (mistake #1). The conversation between the south London poshboy and the Brummie poet ran as follows.

    Me: Excuse me…
    Lawrence: [Still browsing] Yeeeeeees?
    Me: Um…are you Lawrence?
    Lawrence: [Stops browsing] Um. Yeah.
    Me: Oh god, I’m sorry to bother you, I just… [slowly losing the power of coherent speech] wanted to come up and tell you how much your records mean to me and…
    Lawrence: [raises a hand to stop me, head still down] No thanks. I’m just shopping today.
    Me: Oh. Oh. Alright then. [Slinks away in embarrassment]

    It took a long time to get over the disappointment - they say never meet your heroes yadda yadda yadda - until then I realised something somewhat heartening. Everything had come full circle: I had my very own Lawrence story.

    Alex Wisgard

    Posted on January 17, 2012 by mybandtshirt.
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