Nobody remembers me now, but in Scotland I used to be as famous as a pope in Rome. In 2003, for example, I was backstage at the Glasgow Barrowlands being interviewed by The Daily Record. I had finally got somewhere in spite of myself – The List magazine had me at number two in the ‘Hot Scots’ of 2003. I heard afterwards that one of the guys in Primal Scream had nominated me as a joke and the judges had taken him seriously. I never did find out which member of the band it was, but if I ever do I’d like to put his photo in my wallet.
And yet now that I actually was someone, I forever felt like an impostor. That’s been a recurring paradox throughout my life, as has opening my mouth without thinking…
WHEN I SELL A MILLION I’LL TALK TO MY DAD AGAIN
Frankie dreams of hitting the top
By John Dingwall
The Scots bassist in chart-toppers The Darkness has been driven to succeed by his musical father who walked out on him when he was just seven years old.
And while he hopes to be reunited with Austin Paterson, Frankie Poullain has vowed it will not happen until after his band have sold their first million records.
With The Darkness tipped for the Christmas No 1 spot, it could be an emotional holiday season for Frankie.
The 32-year-old, who was raised by his French-born mother, Catherine Poullain, said: ‘I don’t want to be dismissive of my father, but he has such a massive ego that I’ve always felt it impossible to contact him on an equal footing.
‘So I will talk to him only once The Darkness have sold a million records.’
In the midst of the touring mayhem, I tried my best to live this interview down – being in The Darkness was, in a sense, all about embracing embarrassment. In the grand scheme of things, a supposedly ‘embarrassing’ interview was a trifling sideshow; it was best just to move on.
Several months later, I received an email response from the father in question, still living on the island of St Vincent in the Caribbean. I had already heard that he’d forced my brother off the island and bankrupted The Dolphin Inn. Now that he’d ‘come across the article’ (shouldn’t the FBI just google Bin Laden to find out what he’s up to?) it’s fair to say he was disappointed in me, but I couldn’t help sensing a dash of fatherly pride in his email. While not professing to like the music itself – coming from a classical background, he looked down on all pop music, particularly The Beatles (‘terrible musicians’), only making an exception for Bob Marley (‘holy prophet’) – he did appear to be genuinely pleased for me. Moreover, since I’d last slammed the phone down on him five years earlier, he’d provided me with two more brothers, Jason and Rupert, courtesy of a 23-year-old native islander. My dad was nearly 70.
The fact is, I didn’t have a problem with the renegade pirate side of him; in fact, I quite admired it. But what really got me in that email of his was the way he tried to justify what had happened between him and Chris in The Dolphin Inn on St Vincent, way back in 1992. There are some things in life it’s impossible to justify. And one of them is getting in touch with your sons when it suits you, and then fucking them over when it doesn’t. So I ignored the email.
Now that there’d been a resolution to the episode, I didn’t feel as embarrassed about the article any more. Some people use spiritual advisers, meditation or self-help books (like this one) to learn who they really are and what they think. My advice is to get pissed with a journalist – then you’ll find the ultimate truth about yourself. Nobody will believe it anyway, because the truth is the hardest thing to believe. ‘Ye couldnae make it up!’ as they say in Aberdeen when a spoon falls off the table.