Twelve years ago today, I went to the National Film Theatre to see a movie with a friend. Before going in to the auditorium, we looked at the NFT notice board where one ad started FETISH SONGWRITER….
I asked my friend: “What on earth’s a fetish songwriter?”
A man in his late-twenties or early thirties with a leathery face and sticky-up blond punk hair standing beside us said:
“I put that one up.”
He turned out to be someone who, with a friend, wrote and performed fetish songs in drag with props such as a bed of nails and fire.
He told us it took a few weeks to recover from each performance as they really did get burnt:
“I’ve got lots of scars under these clothes,” he told us, “and the bed of nails hurts too.”
He was very happy that he had managed to write a fetishistic version of the Lord’s Prayer and felt that, being realistic, he and his friend (who call themselves Erotica Daist – not Dadaist) should be able to make some impact on the media within six weeks.
That was twelve years ago.
Times don’t change.