Surreal, or what?
Dean Friedman is a fan of the Biscuits - 'There are so many funny lines.'
OVER the dark of the
dance floor, the first thumping chords sail towards us. "Here
it comes, here it comes," he says and he moves fractionally
towards the bright stage, as if a step closer could make him
hear better.
A big, urgent Scouse accent joins the
guitar in song: "Well I heard a lovely rumour that Bette
Midler had a tumour ..." It's Friday night, we're packed into
the baking-hot Liquid Room in Edinburgh and for the first time
in his life the prince of songwriting schmaltz, Dean Friedman,
is listening to a band called Half Man Half Biscuit play the
song that takes his name in vain.
Nigel Blackwell, the
singer, speeds to the lyrical crux: "... and they reckon that I
am, but I hope to God I'm not/ the bastard son of Dean
Friedman." In front of us a tall middle-aged man is singing
along lustily. Nearer the stage, young, late-flowering punks
are pogoing as if there's no tomorrow. Biscuit - as the
cognoscenti apparently call them - are independent and
post-punk, a cult band with a huge following. "They're really
melodic," reckons Friedman. "Boy, they sure know their
genres," he adds as they rip into a country song.
By
now things are getting lively and someone throws a bra at the
band. When the singer takes on Bob Wilson, Anchorman Dean
yells: "You'll have to explain some of these cultural
reference points ..."
It's too hot, so we head to the
courtyard for fresh air. Outside, Friedman remembers how he
felt when he first heard The Bastard Son of Dean Friedman in
1987. "My wife was about to have our first child. For a couple
of seconds I was real nervous; I was thinking, 'She's not
gonna understand this one.'" He really thought it was true?
"Well, I quickly figured out I'd have had to have sired him at
the age of seven, so it wasn't possible. I relaxed. And it's a
great song. There are so many funny lines ... I just feel bad
for Bette Midler."
With his curly locks and his
vintage moustache, Friedman was a man-sized version of Billy
Joel, on the brink of world domination when his country duet
Lucky Stars went to No 1 in Britain in 1977. The lyrics
offered a humdrum scene of life - a couple arguing about his
ex-girlfriend - which appealed to middle England and middle
everywhere. That's exactly why the Biscuits hated it, wasn't
it?
"Let me tell you something," says Friedman. "That
guy Nigel was hip to the fact Lisa and I didn't just do lunch.
You can't interpret a song that way unless you understand what
it's about. And the bottom line is, under all his satire,
Nigel is obviously a literate craftsman, who's probably as
middle-class-normal as the rest of us."
As things turn
out, he might be right. When we knock on the dressing-room
door after the gig, it's as if a long-lost maiden aunt has
come calling on the boys. They shuffle around with big vacant
smiles, making smalltalk. "Everyone sang Lucky Stars in my
school," recalls Nigel Blackwell, from the depths of a scabby
old sofa. "I've got the Rocking Chair album, which is worth
loads. You see it in rarity catalogues." "I wish I had a clean
copy," Friedman says, a little wistfully. There are polite
enquiries about what he's up to, where he's from (Paramus, New
Jersey) and good wishes for his Fringe shows. But Blackwell
has Lucky Stars in his head. He sings a line in broad Scouse:
"Did you see Lisa," then he says, "when you say, 'No, I'm not
being nice,' ... I like that bit."
It turns out the
singer who dueted with Friedman on the song is called Denise
Marsa. Blackwell's wife is called Denise and she shakes Dean's
hand. "I should have introduced you before," mumbles Nigel.
We talk about Friedman's career. The guys didn't know
he had been dropped by the industry for 17 years from 1981. It
was because of his song McDonald's Girl, banned by the BBC.
The Blenders later took it to No 1 in Norway. "We had a
Norwegian hit," says Blackwell, reaching out for connections.
"Stavanger Töestub."
There's more chat, before
Friedman leaves the band to their rest and recuperation. "I
really enjoyed tonight," he says at the door. Blackwell smiles
again, and stretches out a hand: "Good luck with all the
shows."
Back in the cool air, Friedman breathes out
hard. "That was a little surreal," he says into space. "Did
Nigel really say he had my album?" He did, he
did.