500 Words with Zenith
By Phoebe Thorn
Guardian Magazine 11/02/17
At 49 Robert Neal Cassady Macdowell is still disarmingly handsome. He's currently laughing about an ill-fated collaboration from his ill-fated 'not-a-comeback' album, 1995's World-Shaper. 'I'm on the old Apple Corps building and Acid Archie's across the street and we're Frisbee-ing Crispy... Crispin... whatever he's called, to each other [Crispian Mills, lead singer of Kula Shaker]. He's screaming and Archie's singing Let it Be...' He nearly chokes on the remains of his second bottle. 'I heard he shaved his head, moved to India and became a terrorist... There's nothing worse than a posh boy with a guitar...'
'But you don't want to talk about the music. No one ever does. You're here about that time I punched a Nazi'.
Yes, I admit, I want to talk punching Nazis.
'It hurts... Ha! ...Don't think I've told anyone that before.' He orders another bottle. 'Bullets bounce off the guy. Getting your hand through that, the skin, the muscle, the ribs, the spine. It hurts.' He sneers at me. 'Is that what you wanted to know?'
Was he scared?
'No... it's all so fast. One second Siadwell's kicking arse the next he's dead and London's on fire. There's no time to feel anything.'
He's never spoken about what happened next. I read him John Smith's famous eyewitness account '...poison cloud of teeth and eyes, seething from broken body, sickening the world...'
He downs his glass in one and bats the question away. 'That's just what happens when you put your fist through a Nazi.'
It's this incident that has given the forgotten pop-star and former super-brat an unlikely new life as the symbol of protest against the rise of the global right. Every march, every demo from London to Washington to Moscow; emblazoned across the chests of thousands is the electro-Z swoosh of the Zenith logo.
MacDowell's response was to sue for royalties. 'Lies' he waves over another bottle. With perfect timing the TV has started showing today's protests in Parliament Square. 'I initiated an exploratory process to clarify issues of ownership.' Unusually he sounds like he's reading from a script. 'Anyway, I don't own it, rare oversight from Eddie there, RIP, but no one's making any money off it. Today's freedom fighters like things free. Do you know how many records I've sold off the back of this? So few it's less embarrassing to say none.'
'I blame St John.'
For your record sales?
'No. For all of it. This.' He waves at News 24. 'He thought he was so bloody clever. Had us all in his palm. But he slipped and everything's gone to hell.'
He raises a toast 'Save us from those who want to save the world.'
I think I've finally caught a glimpse of the real Robert. The man behind the brat.
Do you have a message for them? He looks at the screen, the army of ersatz Zeniths swarming over William Whitlock's statue. Then he turns to me, eyes clear, mouth set. 'Buy. My. Records. You. Cheap. Bastards.'
By Phoebe Thorn
Guardian Magazine 11/02/17
At 49 Robert Neal Cassady Macdowell is still disarmingly handsome. He's currently laughing about an ill-fated collaboration from his ill-fated 'not-a-comeback' album, 1995's World-Shaper. 'I'm on the old Apple Corps building and Acid Archie's across the street and we're Frisbee-ing Crispy... Crispin... whatever he's called, to each other [Crispian Mills, lead singer of Kula Shaker]. He's screaming and Archie's singing Let it Be...' He nearly chokes on the remains of his second bottle. 'I heard he shaved his head, moved to India and became a terrorist... There's nothing worse than a posh boy with a guitar...'
'But you don't want to talk about the music. No one ever does. You're here about that time I punched a Nazi'.
Yes, I admit, I want to talk punching Nazis.
'It hurts... Ha! ...Don't think I've told anyone that before.' He orders another bottle. 'Bullets bounce off the guy. Getting your hand through that, the skin, the muscle, the ribs, the spine. It hurts.' He sneers at me. 'Is that what you wanted to know?'
Was he scared?
'No... it's all so fast. One second Siadwell's kicking arse the next he's dead and London's on fire. There's no time to feel anything.'
He's never spoken about what happened next. I read him John Smith's famous eyewitness account '...poison cloud of teeth and eyes, seething from broken body, sickening the world...'
He downs his glass in one and bats the question away. 'That's just what happens when you put your fist through a Nazi.'
It's this incident that has given the forgotten pop-star and former super-brat an unlikely new life as the symbol of protest against the rise of the global right. Every march, every demo from London to Washington to Moscow; emblazoned across the chests of thousands is the electro-Z swoosh of the Zenith logo.
MacDowell's response was to sue for royalties. 'Lies' he waves over another bottle. With perfect timing the TV has started showing today's protests in Parliament Square. 'I initiated an exploratory process to clarify issues of ownership.' Unusually he sounds like he's reading from a script. 'Anyway, I don't own it, rare oversight from Eddie there, RIP, but no one's making any money off it. Today's freedom fighters like things free. Do you know how many records I've sold off the back of this? So few it's less embarrassing to say none.'
'I blame St John.'
For your record sales?
'No. For all of it. This.' He waves at News 24. 'He thought he was so bloody clever. Had us all in his palm. But he slipped and everything's gone to hell.'
He raises a toast 'Save us from those who want to save the world.'
I think I've finally caught a glimpse of the real Robert. The man behind the brat.
Do you have a message for them? He looks at the screen, the army of ersatz Zeniths swarming over William Whitlock's statue. Then he turns to me, eyes clear, mouth set. 'Buy. My. Records. You. Cheap. Bastards.'
