Kevin Courtneygoes from Foo Fighter to poo fighter
Strange dream: I'm in the crowd at Marlay Park watching The Who. Usually in these anxiety dreams, I'm onstage with the band, and 30,000 people are waiting expectantly for me to launch into Pinball Wizard, even though I haven't a breeze how to play the tune. It's a variation on that walking naked down O'Connell Street dream - I'm wearing clothes and a guitar, but I still feel horribly exposed. I turn to my wife, who is eight months pregnant, but she's not there - she's backstage, going into labour. Suddenly, The Who launch into the rock opera Tommy, and I hear: "It's a boy, Mr Courtney, it's a boy . . . "
An impending birth can bring on all sorts of worries for an expectant father: will it be healthy? Will it have all its toes? Can I provide for it on my rock journo earnings? When my pop princess announced that I was to be a daddy, my first thought was: shit, that's the end of my rock'n' roll life. Gig over.
I'll have to sell the CDs to make space for the baby books, and cancel all concert plans because I'll be at home with my own little 100-watt amp on my lap. I'll be going from Foo Fighter to poo fighter, from Happy Monday to nappy every day, from Clap Your Hands Say Yeah to, er, clap your hands say yeah.
I will no longer be a credible critic, because who could take seriously the opinion of a guy whose playlist includes Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, Me and My Teddy Bear and Hey Diddle Diddle?
As the pregnancy progressed, however, I began to think that maybe all was not lost, rock'n' roll wise. One baby book suggested singing to the foetus, because it responds to music and to its father's voice. I may not know Pinball Wizard, but I can knock off a few verses of Octopus's Garden, Ziggy Stardust and Rocky Raccoon. And with an audience of just one-and-a-half in the auditorium of my living room, I'm less likely to freeze up.
We named the little fella Ziggy, though we weren't sure if it was
a boy or a girl. It was only a temporary monicker, and when we abandoned it a musician friend was disappointed that his new baby, Bowie Starr, would not now have a friend named after his namesake's alter-ego.
We mulled over such rock'n'roll names as Kurt and Courtney, Kate and Pete, Dweezil and Moon Unit, but in the end we went with Daniel. Well, it is the name of Rocky Raccoon's rival, so that's kinda rock'n'roll.
Daniel arrived a couple of days after the Who concert, and by the time we got him home, I felt (and looked) like Keith Richards after falling out of a tree. Daniel proved to have the lungpower of Robert Plant and launched into an extended concert - with multiple unrequested encores. Desperate and frazzled, I decided to try to soothe him with a rendition of Rocky Raccoon. After all, it worked in the womb, so why not in the cradle?
Not only did it make him cry even more, but it also set his mummy off, which then got me started. Oh boy, we're in for the rock'n' roll ride of our lives.
