Got me, the kiss from the cameraman that I didn’t expect
Life in a newspaper photograph, folded in on itself
Maybe a change or a rest for us
I get sick of the chase
There’ll be some time for the two of us
Why are you looking away?
I’m a prophet, a policeman, I’m jury and judge
Everything must have its place
I can only tell the truth
And I’m ready to open a vein
My finger’s stuck on the bell again
No means of escape
On the doorstep, I can see through the hall again
To get a shot of her face
I’m a prophet, a policeman, I’m jury and judge
Everything must have its place
I can only tell the truth
And I’m ready to open a vein
He’s staring out at me again
I’m sure that I can smell supermarket whisky on his breath
Maybe some time for the two of us
Why are you looking away?
So cold to the touch, oh yeah
Now they’re baying for blood
I’m ready to spill it for them
I’m a prophet, a policeman, I’m jury and judge
Everything must have its place
I can only tell the truth and I’m ready to open a vein
This song’s about a doorstepper who’s driven mad by what he has to do for a living. It’s inspired by the story of a journalist I used to know. Early in her career as a tabloid reporter, she’d been sent with a photographer to doorstep a celebrity whose child was seriously ill. It was 2am. The family weren’t impressed. A voice on the intercom asked them to leave. She handed in her resignation shortly afterwards. When you read a story about someone being confronted by the media, or getting their phones hacked, or having their words twisted to mean something different, it’s easy to blame the individual. But how do they feel about what they’re being asked to do? And what kind of culture would ask them to do something like that in the first place?
I wrote The Cameraman on a Spanish guitar at the foot of Table Mountain. I had bought a wooden cameraman from Greenmarket Square. He was sat on the dining table in front of me, on top of a copy of the Cape Times.
