Do you behave, or misbehave, differently to different music? ‘Course you do. Me, well, I’ll dance like your drunk uncle around my living room to Chaka Khan. In my socks. Nasty. I’ll also get morose to 2nd Division country starlet Matraca Berg, and that’s another deal. But what I do most is talk to Bobby Womack.
Picture this: there I am in my squalid W9 flat, washing up. OK, so this is a rare event, but bear with me. And Bobby’s talking to me. Patti LaBelle may think he’s talking to her, but the bitch is wrong; he’s talking to me, and I’m talking back.
“W-e-e-e-ll you kno-o-w what ah’m talkin’ about!”
Indeed I do Bobby.
“Don’t stay on that cloud too long, brother.”
I won’t Bobby, I won’t.
“But sometimes that feelin’ gets too darn good!”
Oh, I know, I know.
And that, in the end, despite the siren call of Al Green, or the sweet imprecations of James Carr, is why I will always hold a place in my heart for Bobby Womack.
He wrote some decent tunes too.
