FFWD Weekly
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Music by Mary-Lynn McEwen J. Englishman They like him on the cover of his album, appropriately titled Poor L’il Rock Star in a fit of foreshadowing, where his multiple piercings, chunky chains, spiked hair and funky little goatee combine to create allusions to Sid Vicious crossed with the surfin’ squirrel on Pure’s EP. They love him on the inside jacket photos, where a picture of Mr. Englishman sipping a martini and gazing into the camera with eyeliner-saturated eyes suggesting James Bond crossed with David Bowie. In fact, the vixens who staff the intimate southwest musical gathering place where Englishman is due to appear momentarily for his interview are so taken with the images of the singer that by the time he shows up, one of them appears to be on the verge of ovulating. "He looks like such a bad boy on his CD," she explains. And indeed, when he strides through the door looking like sleep’s been a rare commodity and orders up a Jack Daniels on the rocks, I feel my spirit, if not my ovaries, warm up a little, too. Everything about him bespeaks of the ability to breaks one’s heart with confident nonchalance – translation: a naughty knight in tainted armour, a bad boy indeed. Then, with a ring of his cell phone, the bad boy is on the phone to his mommy, who is checking out how the road trip is progressing. Her other child, J.’s sister, is the ethereal Esthero, a music industry veteran. "Mom’s good, which is a good thing because I may have to call her for money in the next couple of days," reports the singer after the call, and between the afternoon drink of J.D. and needing to borrow money from Ma, his album title seems prophetic. And as for the concept of the bad boy, Englishman is in full denial, just like the rest of them. "My motto is WWJD. What would Jesus do? But trouble just kind of follows me around." Englishman’s a natural bad boy, first reveling in the sweet anticipation of running into his ex-stepfather and flashing him a lip piercing that features the diamond from his mother’s former wedding ring, then explaining the reaction at home when he began to indulge in making his body more holey. "Mom doesn’t understand piercings. It was like, ‘What is that, a Twisted Sister pin on your uniform?’ And when I came home with the nipple ring she nearly lost it." How’d she know? "I had to show her. That’s part of the fun, right?" And growing up in Midwestern Ontario, trying to tune in a top radio station that was 100 miles away, begging for a stereo and guitar, and scooping up every rock rag on the shelves, the boy who tried on hair band and folk singer roles, who worshipped Mötley Crüe and The Cure on his way to his present incarnation, feels not bad but glad for the road well taken. "The reluctant rock star thing’s a lot of crap. If somebody’s doing this, it’s because they want to. Maybe I’m still naive enough to be enjoying it more than I should be, but I’m having a blast. I think that if it was 100 years ago, I would have run away and joined the circus. I love the over-romanticized ideas of being in a traveling road show."

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