It’s a bit of a cliché to call a rock star down to earth, implying that he or she is unchanged by fame but there is no more apt description of Chris Rea whose death, aged 74, was announced yesterday. With his creased, careworn face, stocky shoulders and tough, no-nonsense attitude, he looked like a builder’s labourer, seeming to me to have arrived at the restaurant straight from the stage set of Auf Wiedersehen Pet and, of course, he had the accent to match, gruff Geordie, just like Dennis, Neville and Oz.
It was 2012. We had not met before and the lunch had been arranged by someone in his employ to talk about a book he might write, an autobiography possibly published by Omnibus Press, of which I was editor, responsible for acquiring books. I chose a nearby restaurant and it wasn’t expensive, of which I was glad because as soon as he began to talk I sensed a man unimpressed by wealth and fame, of which he had both, who would have been just as happy if I’d taken him to a greasy spoon, not that there are many of those in the West End of London.
I like to think we got on well. We were both from the north. I told him that I loved his song ‘Driving Home For Christmas’ because it resonated with me insofar as every Christmas Eve for years and years I used to drive up the M1 from London to Skipton to spend a few days with my dad when was alive. He was pleased but shrugged. It wasn’t his greatest moment, he said, and he talked about how the blues was his real love, and soul music too, and if all I had of his in my record collection was a greatest hits set – which was true – then he’d put me straight. A week after the lunch he sent me a copy of Chris Rea (Blue Guitars), an 11-CD (and 1 DVD) collection of his blues recordings, 127 songs in total. Beautifully packaged in a large format, the accompanying booklet was illustrated by his own paintings – he was a dab hand with a brush and palette – and photographs of the 25 instruments he played, and when I played the discs I realised there was so much more to Chris Rea than the handful of hits with which he is associated.
Over lunch he talked about his love of Little Feat, and when I told him I’d interviewed Lowell George a couple of times back in my days on Melody Maker, he was impressed and wanted to know everything, all I could remember, about the encounters. He also told me how much he loved Motown music but he wasn’t much impressed when I told him I’d met Michael Jackson.
Chris had arrived for the lunch in a taxi which had brought him all the way from where he lived in Cookham, near Maidenhead, and he told the driver to wait, probably for two hours. He explained that he was unable to drive for some health reason, which must have galled him because we also talked about cars and his love of motor sport. It seemed slightly ironic to me that this pragmatic, humble rock star owned a Ferrari that he couldn’t drive.
I think we parted as friends and I’d like to have met him again but it was not to be. For reasons unexplained, the book never happened. A shame. I’m playing Album Eight (Gospel Soul Blues & Motown) from your Blue Guitars collection as I write. Sounds great. RIP Chris.
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