It was 1990 and Nelson Mandela had just been released after 27 years in prison. The music industry organised a welcome home party and Mandela was invited to appear at an International Tribute For a Free South Africa at Wembley Stadium. I was freelancing at The Voice, Britain’s biggest black newspaper at the time. As the day approached the music editor Dotun Adebayo rang to say he’d been detained in LA by a story on the West Coast’s febrile gangsta rap scene.
“You’ll have to cover it,” he told me down the phone from LA. “Yeah, ya little bitch,” concurred a voice behind him. It was NWA’s Eazy E.
I was honoured, but I had reservations. I was a part-timer not staff. I am half-Bolivian, but not a black man.
I headed to Wembley. My problems began immediately at the press accreditation desk. Incredibly, they hadn’t allocated a media pass for The Voice. The hapless guy in a fluorescent tabard apologised and told me to negotiate with his supervisor via walkie-talkie.
“This is plain racism. Over,” I had to say into the hand set. The harried supervisor arrived and garlanded me with a laminate and I entered the stadium. When I looked at it I saw he’d given me an Access All Areas pass. I could go anywhere.
Immediately I headed backstage and entered a nest of icons in pre-show repose: Lou Reed chewing a carrot stick, Neil Young tuning a guitar. Terence Trent D’Arby and Youssou N’Dour chatting. I got out my tape recorder and decided to harvest quotes.
I approached Lou Reed. “Lou, a great day for Britain’s black community, no?” I chirruped gamely.
“Please. Fuck off and leave me alone,” he said. I was shocked and sought clarification. He was about to elaborate when his jaw flapped open and I saw something both terrifying and awe-inspiring behind me in his mirrored sunglasses. Nelson Mandela and his entourage, come to say thank you to the performers.
There was a sudden, unseemly scrum of icons, but Mandela hadn’t kept up with music during his 27 years in prison and didn’t seem sure who was who. I made the most of it. Elbowing in front of Reed and stamping on Youssou N’Dour’s sandal, I hustled to the front.
“Michael Odell, acting music editor of Britain’s biggest black newspaper,” I said to Mandela. “A great day for our people, no?”
He poured his freckly, beatific gaze on me. I sensed a question in those sparkling eyes: “Sure, but aren’t you a white guy?”
“Very good, very good,” he said finally, with those lavishly rolling r’s, and moved down the line. I turned around tingling. Reed’s square jaw was set in a grimace of fury, my awe-struck face pictured in his shades.
Rock Bottom by Michael Odell is published by Icon Books for £16.99. Order a copy for £14.44 at bookshop.theguardian.com
