Patrick Faust wasn’t the kind of musician to have harems of fans backstage doing lines of coke off the tables, so when your Aunt Linda’s uncle got me backstage, I found myself alone with just a gaggle of reporters.
But Patrick seemed to pick me out from all of them as being out of place. He asked me about my jacket which, embarrassingly, was a replica of one of his that I sewed myself from pictures. I was embarrassed at being outed as a devoted fangirl but he seemed to appreciate the effort and told me how much he loved that jacket, and that he missed it very much. We talked for quite a while and eventually he asked if he could possibly borrow it.
What else do you say to that but yes? You understand he was my Elvis, my Conrad Birdie. There’s no request of his that I would have refused.
“Oh but I’ve taken your jacket,” he said afterward in his dressing room while he tried it on.
“Let’s get you something to wear home.”