The Sludge Desk

Humans are social animals. At least we were until socialising temporarily became fraught. But even before the pandemic, the etiquette of approaching a working musician in the wild was never truly understood, the boundary between stage and floor being closer to stone circle and leyline than booze-sticky moshpit. So how should the conscientious fan, who has now built up a troublingly deep and complex parasocial relationship with the band, inject themselves into the lives of their heroes for real and pick up their friendship from where the last imaginary conversation left off? In this guide I hope to show what to look out for and the best possible approach, backed-up by sheer minutes of anecdotal research. Obviously we are not talking about those who are immediately whisked off backstage and plied with beer, fresh fruit and fun-sized Mars bars, never to be seen again until the next tour; no, not these, but the hard-working ordinary folk of rock and roll, who lift their own gear in and out

Back in March, I made a video call. Eventually I even wrote about it. Here it is. I saw the ridges of disgust rise from their resting places on the North face of that superhuman proboscis of a nose, and knew the Doc was feeling he had walked unwittingly into a sonically noisome scene. “Not for me,” he pronounced in lieu of a greeting before swanning off to begin the business of the afternoon, the details of which are too paradoxically sobering to relate here. You see, I was on a mission. I had been working my way through the unfortunately sized back catalogue of Philemon Arthur and the Dung, the obscure Swedish duo formed in the 60s whose outsider approach to pop and folk is an acquired taste which nevertheless managed to win them a Swedish Grammy in 1972 (which caused its own stink). This was not the pleasure I had imagined it would b