On a first date, relatively recently, I put on one of my favourite albums. It was only later that the woman in question described her distress. It wasn’t terminal, but it wasn’t far off. “I just had to accept that you weren’t the man I thought you were.” Blimey. “I thought you might have bad taste in a heavy metal kind of way, but I wasn’t prepared for this yacht rock.”
This album I’d long loved was, apparently, irredeemably naff. It was Breakfast in America by Supertramp. Earlier this week, when I heard that the band’s co-founder Rick Davies had died, I was sad. Does this make me even naffer? I suspect it does.
But I don’t care. I go back a long way with Supertramp. I had all the albums; the day after my last A-level exam, a friend and I went to London to see them at Earls Court. I bought a sleeveless T-shirt from the merchandise stall, which was doubtless naff, and I wore it for years, which presumably was also a naff thing to do. Naff, naff, naff. Whatever. I just don’t care. I embrace my own naffness. What’s the alternative? Choose something else to enjoy? Pointless. You don’t choose what music you like any more than what football team you support. These things choose you.
Still, it turns out that naff doesn’t mean quite what I thought it meant. My dictionary has it as inferior, worthless, vulgar, socially crass, all of which strike me as being a bit on the heavy side. I mean, I can’t imagine anyone disliking Supertramp to the extent that they’d use such harsh words to describe them. No, they’d just say their music was a bit, well, naff. As in, uncool. Yes, that’s it: uncool. And I’m cool with being uncool.
I’ve been this way a while now. When I left home for university in autumn 1986, I took my record collection with me, oblivious to the puzzlement, derision and even alarm some of my albums would cause fellow freshers. Supertramp were in there, as well as a good many Abba albums, a very long time before Abba had their renaissance. But my new friends were into stuff like Echo & the Bunnymen, Joy Division and whatnot. Being an open-minded, anxious-to-please young chap, I gave their choices the respect they deserved. I have to say that this was rarely reciprocated.
Picture the scene: returning to halls after the student bar had closed, back to my room to drink, smoke and bond. I slipped Abba The Album out of its cover, dropped the needle on the vinyl, and the opening track, Eagle, played out loud and proud. Consternation. Cigarettes hung from mouths agape, their ash lengthening, drooping and falling disconsolate on to laps. Concerned glances were exchanged. Who was this strange creature? And he seemed so normal! One of the young men in the room was a Stiff Little Fingers fan from Consett. Later he said I’d given him cause to wonder if punk had somehow bypassed the West Midlands altogether.
I tried Supertramp instead. No better. Rod Stewart caused an even bigger outcry. The night was long, especially I daresay for my companions. I rifled through my library looking for something, anything, to keep my head above the rising sea of scorn. A lad from Bristol said he was into Lead Belly. I tried Led Zeppelin on him, but it didn’t wash. I felt I’d slightly redeemed myself with John Martyn and Van Morrison, but only slightly.
When Abba made it back from the cultural wilderness to assume the status of global icons, I felt a certain bitterness that fans like me, who’d stayed with them throughout, hadn’t had our loyalty recognised in some way. I made this point to Benny when I got to interview him. He smiled and nodded and said he appreciated my support. Nice. It was my pleasure.
• Adrian Chiles is a Guardian columnist
