STRANGER.......

Friday, June 01, 2007

'One Train Later'.   Andy Summers is signing copies of his autobiography in Easons, Dublin.    The title refers to a chance second meeting with Stewart Copeland which led to him becoming a member of the Police.   It's early April. I'm early too, so I have a good spot in the queue – just on the steps of the store.   By the time my book is signed the line goes out and around the block.   Standing in line I wonder what should I get him to write. I don't want "to Paul – best wishes Andy".    I really want something more personal, maybe more enigmatic.    I've decided on this : "The World Goes Stranger".   It's a reference to a solo album of his called 'World Gone Strange' which I've had for about twenty years.   It also resonates with how thirty years later in his own career, he has resumed the role of Andy Summers, guitarist with The Police.


I hand him the book and a piece of paper with the inscription written on it.   'The World Goes Stranger'.   He looks at it for a second, trying to make sense of it.   He gives me a quizzical look.  "Well….it does – doesn't it?", I ask.    "Yes, I suppose it does….. What name will I put?" he asks.   "No name".    He seems puzzled at this.   I guess he's used to "To [insert name], best wishes Andy Summers".   So while he writes the inscription in excellent rock star handwriting, I ask my question, which I have inspirationally prepared, in order to be different and also glean some nugget of wisdom from this icon.   Since the announcement of the 'reformation' I've been asking friends to guess how old Andy is.  Amazingly, he's sixty four.   Ten years older than his two colleagues yet despite a few tell-tale lines which betray the passage of time, to me he doesn't look more than a few years older than his image on Police album covers.    Nearly a pensioner and still a teenager.   "Andy, tell me this … where IS the fountain of youth?"     He laughs, "Boots the chemist!".


I'm delighted with my book, pleased with my cryptic inscription and impressed with my charming wit.   For Andy, it's just another slash of the pen, another forgotten face, another piece of banal banter.   As a music fan and Police fan, the encounter is something to remember, perhaps recall to my grandchildren, certainly smile privately about in quiet moments.     But it's over quickly and life goes on.


Almost a month later I find myself in Santa Monica.    A weeks holiday in California, driving from San Diego to LA for a few days.    I'm particularly interested in visiting Santa Monica because it is where my music idol lives.    Neil Peart is the drummer with RUSH, a Canadian band who also have their roots in the Seventies.     Just being in the town where The Professor now lives is enough to give me a buzz.   I spend the two days scanning pigeon-like among the faces on streets and in cars for a glimpse but I know that he will be out of town for sure.     RUSH released their latest album only yesterday and are most certainly in rehearsals in Toronto for their imminent World Tour.


Coincidentally, The Police have been rehearsing in Canada also - in Vancouver - and are just about to start their tour.     However, as I walk aimlessly around a Santa Monica Mall I am stunned to see a familiar face walking towards me.   I do a double take and sure enough there is the diminutive but unmistakable Californian-sun-bleached-and-tanned guitarist walking past pulling a suitcase.   "Andy Summers!" I exclaim.   He makes eye contact and nods but keeps walking and in a second is gone.  Another insignificant meeting, another moment of uncomfortable fame, an unwelcome encounter that threatens to interrupt his schedule.    I can't begrudge his reaction.    He's obviously going to the airport to catch a plane to rehearsals or a gig, or has just gotten off a flight for a short break.


Did I think he'd recognise me?    Certainly not.    He's probably signed thousands of books for thousands of anonymous admirers in the last month.    Did I want him to stop and say hello?   Maybe a little.    But the guy is going through the most demanding and nerve wrecking time he's probably had in the last thirty years.    I'm sure he treasures those quiet moments when he can stroll through a mall anonymously.    A slightly tubby, slightly balding, slightly? middle-aged stranger in sandals, shorts and an un-Californian grey t-shirt is not an attractive diversion from his rock'n'roll world.


But our second meeting strikes me immediately as something mystical .... an impossible recrossing of two life-paths otherwise poles apart.     On the other side of the world, in the land of stars, the only famous person I've seen is a guy I've spoken to less than four weeks previously.    I wish I hadn't frozen in that second and had been able to say …. "See, Andy, I told you so."    Maybe he might have taken a second to discuss how one flight earlier or later and we would not have met again.    The irony might have provided an amusing anecdote in a later history of the Police.    And I could have reminded him of my cryptic message and my question on his Dorian Gray youthfulness.

The grey t-shirt I'm wearing has these lines printed on the front:

 "I'm not old. I'm a kid with wrinkles"