Rare art of saying a swift but graceful goodbye
Siobhan Synnot
ONE never knows what to expect from a Van Morrison performance. Will it be the barking Bluesman Van? Or one of those nights when he can’t be faffed and throws out a vanilla performance – White Van Man?
Being a Van fan is like being a leafleter at the Fringe – one side throws out beseeching affability while the object of attention clings to the other side of the street.
It’s been years since I saw the Belfast Cowboy live, partly because I cringe at his painfully awkward exits from gigs. True to form at Glasgow’s Kelvingrove bandstand last week, he wandered off while his band continued to batter out his 1965 hit Gloria.
During an extensive keyboard solo, it dawned on us that there would be no encore and Van had booked his Uber cab. And by the time they brought up the houselights, Van was checking emails back in his hotel room.
In life there are many more exits than entrances. Some are overextended – just go to bed, Von Trapp kids. Van is more like my friend Mike, who once exited a party via the bathroom window.
Some assume it doesn’t matter how you leave. But not the late, great Camelot actor Richard Harris, who gathered the cast and crew at the end of filming and praised them lavishly for their craft, talent and fellowship, before adding that while he enjoyed their great adventure together, could they keep his fond memories of their final moments intact ‘by never trying to contact me again’.
Radio Scotland learned the hard way that a quick, clean withdrawal works out best. Years ago, an afternoon presenter was told he was being binned, but would have to continue his music and chat show for another four months, until they found his replacement.
A seasoned professional who has worked on pirate radio in the days of real pirates, he was initially sanguine – but soon got cheesed off with fronting Radio Death Row.
While playing Ace’s How Long, he interjected ‘another five weeks, actually’. Another time, he stacked a bunch of tracks to play back-toback and told listeners he was off for a walk in the nearby Botanic Gardens. His final day is still talked about in Beeb corridors, especially the moment he wheeled in a piano to sing This Will Be Our Last Song Together, culminating in a crash of emotional chords.
Eddie Mair was working for Radio Scotland at the time, so who knows – maybe it influenced how he chose to quit Radio 4 last week after 30 years with the BBC. If this had been a movie, he would have stepped down in a montage of greatest moments, before walking through the office to a standing ovation of applause and tears.
Instead, Eddie slipped out of the PM programme two days early, without fuss – although, like Van and Afternoon Show Guy, he did leave his followers with a song: Bring Me Sunshine.
It was so smartly handled it’s hard to believe it wasn’t planned, although that’s the way Eddie tells it. Making a graceful exit is one of life’s skills because the manner in which you leave is remembered, as well as the way you arrive somewhere else. That’s why celebrities practise getting out of taxis.