Starr Stories / December 17 2007
I had a visit from my old pal Sonny Starr yesterday. Sonny is the drummer with punk band The Dysons and lives in a tiny bohemian garret on the Rue St Denis in Paris. I haven’t seen him for about five years.
‘To what do I owe this rather unexpected pleasure, Sonny?’ I inquired, leading him into the sitting room where Audrey was bouncing all over the furniture like Tigger.
‘The Dysons need a guitarist, man – how’re you fixed?’ he enthused.
‘I’m fixed very well, thank you, but I can’t do it, Sonny, I’m afraid.’
‘Don’t be afraid, man – it’s gonna be wild!’ he spat at me. ‘You were the first person I thought of,’ – I’m sure I wasn’t – ‘get your stuff: the magic van’s outside.’
I had to turn him down; His band has garnered something of a rich reputation for themselves recently, especially with regard to professional recording facilities. The band’s erstwhile guitarist Staz is infamous for always leaving a large ‘calling-card’ on the toilet seat in every studio they visit. (More on this later.)
‘I’ll have to say no, Sonny,’ I insisted, ‘I just couldn’t stand the pace.’
‘But, mate, it’s gonna be great! We’ve got a tour booked in Bulgaria and you can have Staz’s old bunk on the bus. . .’ I almost did a little vomit in my mouth at the thought of that but just managed to hold it down safely. ‘. . . and we can get pissed and you can stay with me in Paris and we can do loadsa drugs and get some whores . . . and . . . well, it’ll be just like the old days, man.’
I find it hard sometimes to say no to people, especially old friends, but on this particular occasion, I looked him straight in his good eye and said with all the emphatic resolution I could muster: ‘No, Sonny. No.’
Filed under Bands / Punk / Recording Studio / Rock'n'Roll Excess / Sonny Starr
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