My Band T-Shirt

In the run-up to this weekend’s Spent Vs My Band T-Shirt extravaganza (http://on.fb.me/AabfDW), here is Spent’s John Best with his own tremendous t-shirt story…

OK, so it’s not exactly a band t-shirt, in that it was never sold on a merch stand anywhere, but it does feature at least one member of a multi-million selling band, in ‘Mad’ Richard Ashcroft, seen here keeping the company of a bunch of back-roomers, among them on the left, your truly. I do have other Verve (and later, post-jazz-label-litigation, The Verve) t-shirts, but this one holds the most memories and associations, for obvious reasons. At this time (I’m going to say, 1994) I was masquerading as manager of Wigan’s chosen few, having graduated from being their publicist,  and this T would have been created in a cheap instant print shop hard by Mann’s Chinese Theatre on Hollywood Blvd, hence cheesy walk-of-fame typeface.  

It still being early an Verve US jaunt, we were giddy enough with the notion of ‘America’ to want to go out and just be in the place they made the movies. We must have stepped away from our budget West Hollywood accommodation to go and fit our hands and shoes in concrete prints left by Tinseltown’s great and good.  Doing the t-shirt would have been my idea, since it’s not the only one i have with my face on it. (I also had one done with James Brown, later of Loaded, on his first trip to America back in the late 80s and, I have to say, I recommend them, as they take on unexpected poignancy with the passing of the years. Plus nothing unsettles people more about what kind of crazy egomaniac you might be than walking round with your own younger phisog stretched across your front.) 

Anyway, the pretty guy at the bottom of the picture is David Boyd, who ran Verve’s label Hut Records in the UK, and had some kind of Native American fixation that extended beyond his blonde-Geronimo good looks to the wearing of a lot of turquoise and silver jewellery, and radically short denim cut-offs (actually, maybe that bit wasn’t native American). He was the person who suggested I manage the band, after they’d spent every last penny of their advance on beer and pasties in the first short months of their deal, and needed someone a little bit more, ahem, “responsible” to step into the breach. As their publicist, I understood next to nothing of what a manager did, but having already watched Pulp, Elastica and Cranberries come to our PR office manager-less, and go onto bigger and, let’s face it, more lucrative things, I was keen to give it go.  

This would’ve been around the time of their second album, A Northern Soul, and Dicky (as we sometimes referred to him) would have no doubt been calling me Eppie, in reference to Brian Epstein’s supposed illicit attachment to John Lennon, goading me that I had beyond-bromantic leanings towards our putative star. As it went, I didn’t (I couldn’t go for someone who didn’t flush the loo after themselves), but then anyone living South of Manchester would have naturally and quite rightly aroused gay suspicions.  Truth is, later that night I would make a gauche attempt to, um, “flirt” with the other person on this shirt, one Liz something-or-other who A&R’d for the band’s US label Vernon Yard, and had signed the still excellent Low. Liz rightly gave short shrift to my half-hearted seduction attempts, and everyone had a right old laugh in the morning, for unbeknownst to me, the motel walls were so thin, they could hear my abject attempts to call her room.

Later on, we went to party at Ritchie from Acetone’s house somewhere in the unknown hipsterville of Silverlake. Acetone were our Hut label-mates and supporting us on tour. In the future - when Ashcroft had stolen and secretly married Jason from Spiritualized’s girlfriend Kate - Spiritualized would immortalise the by-then sadly late Acetoner in song with The Ballad of Ritchie Lee. I remember the house seemed super-glamorous and have an abiding memory of myself standing in the shallow end of a swimming pool in my clothes drinking a brewski and feeling the innate rightness of doing it surrounded by such balmy LA-ness.

Perhaps the same night, or maybe one shortly thereafter, I also remember Damon Albarn coming to a small room where all of The Verve were ensconced smoking draw (and probably more) and him insisting on fronting out some extrapolated North:South rivalry (based, I guess, on Ashcroft’s friendship with the Gallaghers). It was kind of a bizarre evening and constantly threatened to turn ugly. In the end I think it was suggested that someone take Damon away before it properly kicked off. Anyway, there’s no real end to this rambling anecdote, except to say that such was life on the road with the then only legends-in-their-own-minds around 1994. Soon of course, everything would change, and a few years later I would have no connection with any of these people. Only one of us would be wrestling with head-turning wealth at odds with our working class roots, and it wouldn’t be me. Still at least i got the lousy t-shirt.

P.S. Either that shirt’s got smaller or…oh, hang on a minute…

John Best