I should have been suspicious. My 11-year-old daughter was instigating a conversation. The last time that happened, she took me for 100 kroner.
“I was walking along the street when I was approached by a man.”
Houston we have a problem!
“He asked me whether I’d ever considered acting before?”
Act cool … like Fonzie.
“And said I should come along to an audition at his flat.”
Olympus has fallen, get the subs in launch mode. We are at DEFCON 1.
She seemed peculiarly pleased when I asked her who she was with, where exactly it took place and, most importantly, did this person give her a business card, dismissing each question with the casualness of a seasoned espionage operative.
Read the smallprint
It was at this point she reminded me that it was April 1.
This particular “Aprilsnar!” illustrated two major differences between the Danish and British psyches. Firstly, Danish humour is darker. It might not reach the depths of unpleasantness that Anglophones like, but it’s murkier down there.
And secondly, we Brits worry far too much about paedophiles. My daughter did the same April Fool’s on her Danish grandmother, and her reaction couldn’t have been more different: “How lovely! What a stroke of luck that his bedsit is on the next street!” Her British granny would have just stood there, mouth ajar, aghast like the British Empire had fallen for a second time.
Prince is alive
Anyway, I’m not going to be fooled for a second time, so I’m laying it down straight here, so the whole world can see: the artist formerly known as ‘The artist formerly known as Prince’ is not formerly of this planet Earth – he’s alive, and no, I’m not talking about in your hearts.
This whole episode is a commentary on the nature of celebrity – particularly the way we mourn them more than people we actually knew. He’s spent his whole life defying convention (his name, interview expectations etc), and in quite a serious, profound manner, and there’s no doubt he has the wall of secrecy around him to pull this off.
At some star-studded event in the near future, he’s going to pop out of a purple cake and start singing, and the whole world is going to be like: “WTF!” And then five minutes later: “I knew he couldn’t be dead. When’s his next album out?”
Straight to the head
Prince might not be coming to Copenhagen in May, unless he’s cremated and some of the dust particles make it over (my attempt at Danish humour), but there’s a whole host of big names coming our way, including Adele, Iggy Pop, Mumford & Sons, Brian Ferry and Rod Stewart.
All this superstardom has me wondering how these people survive without developing a god complex. All I need to feel superhuman is a handful of likes on Facebook, so imagine what a standing ovation (Denmark excepted … it’s just too easy) from thousands of fans would feel like.
I guess I’m guilty of letting adoration go to my head too easily, but there are worse places it could go to. Like the hips – take Elvis for example (don’t miss Cake Day on May 3), and there’s nothing worse than a celebratory dancer, unless it’s Roger Milla – or the penis, but I guess that’s why people buy Ferraris.
Cardinal sin of celebrity
One of the world’s leading portrait takers, Mario Testino, knows something about celebrity. Don’t miss his exhibition at Gammel Strand. Meanwhile, I Called Her Lisa Marie at Galleri Tom Christoffersen tackles the subject via a mug’s gallery of Elvis fans.
And who knows what the future holds for talented director Jeremy Thomas-Poulsen. He’s just co-founded a new theatre company, Down the Rabbit Hole, and their first production is the hilarious-sounding Elsie and Norm’s ‘Macbeth’.
Elsewhere this month, various festival and event organisers are imploring you to tentatively step outside to the likes of Ledreborg Lifestyle, Carnival, May Day, the Beer Festival and the Medieval Market.
You might as well! As another famous prince put it, who knows when our “quintessence of dust” is up.