Rock stars – you could never be up to them. And Sam Snort should know, having been up to them, up with them and, of course, up a good many of them since McCormack first learned to count.

Take that Bono, for example. Barely can some elder statesman of the blues break wind let alone fail to wake up dis mawnin’, but Bono is out and about in the public prints loudly proclaiming the old codger’s inspirational role in the formation of U2.

Hubba Bubba
“For four young guys from the badlands of Dublin’s north inner city,” His Bononess will begin, all breathy and profound, “no-one spoke our language quite like the Saint of Bourbon Street, The High Priest of the Projects, The Boogie Woogie Man of the Bowery – Blind Hubba Bubba Crackerbarrel III. He was our guide, our pathfinder, our pointman, the guy with the lollipop and the white coat who helped us negotiate the great highway of life, and get safely to and from Mount Temple Comprehensive at lunchtime. Without dropping our sandwiches.
“One day we were trying to learn at least one of the chords in ‘Nights In White Satin’ and almost the very next day – well, about 25 years later to be precise – we were slammed in the face by The Holy Man of Jazz, The Medicine Man of Blues Pharmacology, The Celebrity Chef of Soulfood - Blind Hubba Bubba Crackerbarrel IV (his da, Crackerbarrel III, having tragically passed away while we were mastering the second chord of ‘Nights in White Satin’).
“For us, Hubba Bubba was the world in a blues riff – a car crash on Main Street, a hawk over the Black Hills, high tea in the Clarence. He was poet, preacher and petty thief of the mind. He freaked us out and then he freaked us right back in again. To me he was, y’know, the Stephen Hawking of the cosmic riff. (Pause). Or was that Johnny Cash?”
Well, yes, it’s easy to get confused especially when you have thus far claimed your band’s touchstone to be the aforementioned Mr Cash plus, in no particular order, Joey Ramone, Joe Strummer, Bob Marley, Roy Orbison, BB King, Frank Sinatra, Pavarotti, Bob Dylan, Boyzone, Bellefire, Cactus World News, Wishbone Ash and, of course, Foghat. (What? No Seamus Ennis?)
Still, credit where it’s due – at least Bono is prepared to give credit even where it isn’t due. Contrast this with the position adopted by Bob Geldof, a man who once wore a shirt proclaiming ‘Geldof is God’ and who may not have been entirely in jest.

Crap Music
For those of you who were too busy enjoying my column last week to bother with the cover story, here in a nutshell is how His Bobness described the origins and influence of The Boomtown Rats.
In the word according to Bob, Ireland in 1975 was a bit like Afghanistan under the Taliban, but with crap music instead of no music at all. (Hey! What about Peggy’s Leg, man?) Then along came Bob and the Rats doing ‘Barefooting’ and overnight Ireland had motorways, cappuccino, the internet and 24-hour Spars, and all the Christian Brothers, police and showbands were either in exile or in jail. Q.E.D.
This is cracking stuff, I’m sure you’ll agree – on a par with some bloke from Dun Laoghaire claiming he’s helped save the lives of thousands of starving people in Africa.
It’s precisely because Sam has had so much exposure to the posturing of rock stars that he has learned to trust only two people in the business they call show – myself and B.P. Fallon. (And sometimes I have my doubts about Beep, especially when he’s rabbiting on about John and Yoko which, come to think of it, is most of the time.)
But maybe that’s just the kind of paranoia the world of rock’n’roll induces in even the most steely-minded souls. Hell, between ourselves, there are times when I don’t even believe myself, but that usually only happens when I’m speaking to someone or writing this column.
The rest of the time, you know you’re getting it straight from Sam Snort.
An’ ah thank the ladeez know exactly what ahm a-talkin’ ’bout.
Your ever lovin’ Samuel J. Snort esq