How I Became A Parlotones Fan

I’d like the record to show that Nathan Casey is man enough to admit when he’s wrong.

I’d foolishly thought my skill on the tambourine and triangle in junior school was enough to secure a successful musical career. The rejection of my first homemade single, ‘Ring-sting coz I swallowed my bling-bling’, set this “failed musician” on a terrible path of bitterness and jealousy.

My eyes were opened to my folly by DJ Raine whose “25 years’ experience in the music business” proves you’re never too old to throw your granny panties on the stage, and by Jackie B, a man with little patience for punctuation or paragraphs, who breathlessly pushed me to the floor [that one’s for the fans].

The opportunity to promote barely edible, mutated chicken offcuts was a “reward” for all the Parlo’s hard work, Raine told me, and then proceeded to place her idols in the same class as waka-waka soccer promoter, Shakira – gently reassuring me it was alright for fans to be cruel sometimes, so I shouldn’t worry about it.

Not one to answer a rhetorical question such as, “what’s the point in being an artist if no one recognises your work?”, I could only sympathise with the likes of Leonardo Da Vinci and ponder on the meaninglessness he must have believed his life life’s work amounted to – I’m sure he was just in it for the recognition.

If that wasn’t thought-provoking enough, Jackie B forced me to reflect on my “anger issues” and soon I was curled under my desk, thumb-sucking, crying in a foetal position. I can only thank him for my awakening.

It does “take talent to become famous” I suddenly agreed – I watch enough reality tv to realise that.

Who am I to judge those who turn a blind eye to the plight of four-legged, beakless box-chickens if it “reminds them of the people who have given them joy and filled their lives with the beauty of music”?

And now I can see that those kids in South American sweatshops probably wouldn’t have jobs if it wasn’t for shoe manufacturers.

I was a convert!

With a mascara job that would’ve made Stanley Kubrick proud I rushed to the nearest church, clutching my new favourite band’s cd to my heart, and forced it into the pastor’s hands.

When he told me they were just a wannabe Killers tribute band I punched him in the face and quoted my mentor, Jackie B: “Even Jesus was unwelcome in his own country!”

I can only hope for your forgiveness and offer a big hug when I see you at the next Parlotones concert.