The love of a lead singer

Or how I wasted a lot of time chasing a dream

It started with Michael Hutchence. I was an early adopter of Michael Hutchence and liked him before he appeared in ‘Just 17’ magazine. I loved him when he had a mullet and bad skin. I loved him before he appeared on ‘Live Aid’. I had a VHS video of INXS before anyone had even heard of them. I especially liked the way he had a faint lisp. And the way he raised his arms above his head when he danced as if he was offering himself up for me (this is something I’ve noticed other lead singers do- they often have very open body language as if they are inviting women into their world). For me he epitomised the ideal. He was hedonistic. He was rebellious. He was wild. For a fourteen year old girl he felt like the kind of man your family would absolutely hate if you bought him home. I felt insanely jealous when he had an affair with Kylie and Paula Yates. I believed that if only we’d met we would have ended up together. I was convinced that he would have thrown all the other women away for me.

I had the same belief years later when I followed a lead singer around London who was in a band that I can’t name just because it is just too embarrassing. At each gig I’d be convinced that he was looking at me. That he wanted me. That it was only me that he was singing to. It was clear that every other woman in the room felt the same. I later went back stage and he talked to be for ten minutes. During that time I felt like my heart was catapulted out of my chest and was located in the back of my throat. This kicked off a period of about six months where I did nothing but think about him.

‘It’s obvious he fancies me. If he didn't like me at all then why would he talk to me?’ I’d say to my friend Sally who also liked singers in bands.

‘But he ran off as soon as we got out of that taxi,’ she replied sarcastically.

‘He’s just embarrassed to say anything. Besides he borrowed ten pound off of me. It was clear he wanted to see me again or why borrow money?’

‘Because he’s skint?’

Weeks later I decided to confess my feelings to him. I did this standing in a bar in Soho. It was very late and I was carrying my work laptop in a Sainsbury’s carrier bag. I had a taxi waiting outside, and in my mind I thought that this confession would illicit a strong response and he’d tell me to cancel my taxi and come back to his house where he’d worship me for the rest of my days. I would give up my career in market research and be a muse.

‘I just wanted to tell you that I really like you,’ I said staring into his eyes and holding both his hands in mine, ‘Like really a lot.’

He nodded. He didn’t look surprised. Why would he? I hadn’t kept my love under a bushel. I had been waving my damn bushel at him for months. He also still owed me a tenner.

‘Bye then,’ he said, ‘You’re going to miss your taxi.’

I’d bitten my lip and turned to leave. Would he grab my hand and stop me? Would he kiss me? Would he realise that what he needed in his life was a girl with a studio flat in West London and a good career in market research? Why wasn’t he stopping me from leaving? In the taxi I unpicked his behaviour at length.

‘I think perhaps he was shocked by my candour and didn’t want to embarrass himself by kissing me in front of everyone,’ I said.

‘Did he ask for your telephone number?’ my friend asked as the taxi whizzed towards Ladbroke Grove.

I thought about it. Was there concrete evidence that he liked me? He had borrowed money from me. He’d stared at me a couple of times. Why couldn’t I pin him down? The crush on this man continued with me visiting message boards to see where he was appearing next. It continued for maybe a year until I went to see him perform in Camden and looked up to see what I can only describe as a greasy, looking oik with yellow teeth and a sweaty T-shirt. The veil had lifted. I did not see him as desirable anymore. He looked down at me and winked.

What is it about the front man that gets women in a tizzy? What is it about them that makes women weak, makes them act in ways that are out of character? Pamela Des Barres the famous groupie in the 60s said: ‘It means rock'n'roll in the sack. It means sex: the lyrics, the beat of it, the thunderous feeling through your body. Before the word groupie even existed I knew that I wanted to share myself with someone who created that music and turned me on in every kind of way.’

There seems to be this idea that a front man, someone who can sing, can write music, has charisma, confidence, can dance translates into someone who is equally successful in bed. In my fantasies however it is rarely about having sex, and is instead more about role reversal. The man who everyone is looking at and adoring is instead looking and adoring me. I am the front woman. I have absorbed all that energy. In essence I have got rid of all my hang ups, my insecurities, my fears and have metamorphosised into someone that is worship-able (is there such a word?) It is the idea of undivided attention from a man. Of someone listening so intently to everything you say that you feel fascinating to them. Of being put on a pedestal by this man. It’s also flawed because men who put themselves on these pedestals don’t want a woman to join them.

Since I’ve got older I have stopped having so many crushes on singers in bands. I have got to an age where people laugh when I say I like Harry Styles. It is ridiculous.

My day to day life has become so driven by practicalities. I juggle work, family, cat litter mess and washing and what I fantasise now about is someone who can fix a bathroom lock, can get rid of damp, can mend a car. I want someone who can prepare packed lunches and puts the washing away instead of leaving it in a pile on the stairs. I have given up on the idea of being worshiped. I will instead make do with someone who replaces the toilet roll when it is used up, and wordlessly takes the children out when I collapse on the sofa. I have abandoned the idea of rock and roll. I instead want to be in bed by 9pm so I can read my book.

However there is still a tiny glimmer left perhaps. One day as I scroll through Instagram, a video of Michael pops up. He is singing to camera. He has a delicious expression. He is telling me, only me that he is in love with me.

‘I know you were the first woman to spot my potential,’ he says, rotating his hips and spreading his arms wide, ‘I am here forever. Trapped in your fantasy.’

He won’t ask me to lend him ten pound to get home. He will not ignore me when I profess my love for him. I hit play several times and watch the video on loop. That is what the front man is. A fantasy. He is not a real person. The moment he becomes a real person, the shine disappears.

It’s a shame we never met, I whisper, you would have loved me very hard, I say, I am sorry you never got to experience that.