by Wells, Nicky
I took the steaming mug of hot chocolate into the lounge and set it quietly on the corner of the table. Mike grunted and continued writing without missing a beat.
‘For you,’ I whispered, lest he hadn’t understood. ‘You need a break.’
‘Nope,’ he responded gruffly, never once pausing in his work. ‘No time.’
I bit my lip. He looked terrible, and I was worried. Surely a quick break wouldn’t hurt?
‘Come on,’ I cajoled softly. ‘Five minutes, and the sugar rush will—’
‘For fuck’s sake, Emily!’ Mike exploded and threw his pen down. ‘I said, I’m working. What fuckin’ part of that don’t you fuckin’ understand?’
I recoiled as if he had struck me.
I’ll bite your head off when you interrupt me, a little voice muttered in my head. I had completely forgotten his warning, and now I was feeling his wrath.
‘I’m sorry,’ I soothed. ‘I was merely concerned for—’
‘Jesus, woman, you are a pain in the ass. Now I’ve completely lost the moment. Fuck.’ Mike snatched up the piece of paper he had been writing on and scrunched it angrily into a tight ball.
‘Fuck,’ he repeated emphatically, then aimed his paper missile at my head. He missed by several centimetres and stared at me, anger flashing in his eyes, his hair standing on end. He looked deranged, dangerous even.
I swallowed hard. I had invited him to stay with me, and I had sworn to myself that I would nurture his creative genius, but I hadn’t bargained with outbursts like this despite his warning. I took a step backwards.
‘Sorry,’ I whispered, keen now to extricate myself from the situation.
‘Fuckin’ hot chocolate,’ Mike roared, eyeing up the still steaming mug. ‘Who said I liked hot chocolate in the first place? Bloody hell. Now I’ve got to start all over again.’
I took another step backwards, not knowing what to say. Mike raked his hands through his hair, and for a moment I flinched, thinking he might actually lash out at me. He saw me cower and dropped his hands to his side.
‘God, Emily, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’ All the anger left his voice, and he looked really contrite, almost deflated. He sat down again wearily.
‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated. ‘I told you I’m hell to live with. I didn’t mean to swear at you. It’s just…you caught me at a bad moment, and now it’s all gone.’ He picked at a sheaf of paper despondently.
‘I—I didn’t mean to get you off track,’ I whispered. ‘Only you look so tired, and I thought a bit of sugar would maybe perk you up.’
‘I know. I know, and you’re right. But I can’t stand being interrupted. It really pisses me off.’
‘I can tell.’ Well, now I could. But I kept my sarcasm to myself.‘It won’t happen again. However…’
An idea shaped in my head, and I decided to push my luck while he was in a more mellow mood again. ‘Tell you what. I promise to leave you utterly and completely in peace if you promise to spare me half an hour for dinner tonight. Only a little half hour.’
Mike rubbed his nose and sniffed. ‘Okay,’ he agreed with evident reluctance.
‘At seven. For half an hour. You must eat.’
‘O-kay,’ Mike repeated. ‘Yes, mum.’
I rolled my eyes and left him to it.
To distract myself and to give myself time to recover from Mike’s vicious outburst, I took myself off to Oxford Street and purchased a copy of Bon Jovi’s biography, plus a dummy’s guide to music marketing and publicity. I figured I could use all the help I could get. Afterwards I went off to the record store to buy the entire collection of Bon Jovi CDs going right back to the very first album.
‘That’s a lot of music,’ the shop assistant commented when I turned up at the till with my stack of albums.
‘I’m late to the party,’ I joked. ‘I’ve got a lot of catching up to do.’
He gave me a blank look and rang up my purchases. I left the shop and treated myself to a spot of lunch before returning home and sequestering myself in my bedroom with my portable stereo and the book. I could have downloaded the lot onto my tablet, of course, book, music, and all, but I fancied holding the real thing in my hands while I listened.
Pretty quickly, I got the idea of why Mike was so inspired by this band, and I started taking notes for a launch campaign for Fallen For Rock as and when he was ready. I would start a Facebook page and a Twitter account for the band, plus start them up on YouTube and ReverbNation. I would write press releases, haunt radio stations to get the band airplay…
The task was enormous and somewhat daunting, but I made myself lists of things to do. First and foremost, I would need to make contacts. To do that, I would have to hang around clubs, pubs, radio stations, and recording studios. I would have to find London’s music media moguls’ most favourite haunts and frequent those, too. And to do all of that, I needed some kind of presence of my own, so I began my journey with a Facebook and Twitter account for myself. I would also have to get a website, but that could wait a little while. ‘One step at a time, right?’
For two weeks, Mike and I coexisted in this manner. He wrote, and I stayed out of his way as best I could. He really was a nightmare to live with when he was writing, and I found myself tiptoeing around my own flat. We had another few outbursts along the way, but I learned to let them wash over me, even though they upset me.
When I wasn’t trying to avoid disturbing the creative monster, I read books and trawled the Internet to learn everything I could about publicity, and I compiled a great folder of notes and ideas.
Unfailingly, every night at seven o’clock, I lured Mike out of his room or the lounge with home-cooked food. I kept my offerings simple and mostly healthy. I cooked up burgers with a large salad; steak with broccoli bake; home-made pizza with a hidden vegetable sauce as well as double pepperoni and lashings of cheese; tuna melt pasta bake; fishcakes with vegetable rissoles; chicken stir-fries.
To my surprise, I found that I greatly enjoyed taking care of our culinary needs. I did more cooking than I had ever done before. It was immensely satisfying to produce a steaming dish fresh from the oven and be able to say, ‘I made that from scratch.’
Mike wolfed down enormous portions every evening and drank several glasses of water with them, plus a strong coffee to finish. He still had that faraway, obsessed look on his face, but with an enforced eating routine, he began to look less gaunt. His mood swings became less erratic, and I swear he slept better, too. I had no evidence of this, of course, other than that there was complete silence in his room from about midnight.
Gradually, snippets of tunes turned into whole songs, and Mike’s voice floated around my flat in memorable patterns. Very quickly, I recognised songs and even began to hum along. It was magic in the making, and I knew I was part of something extremely special.
And then, one morning, Mike emerged from his room fresh-faced and sparkly-eyed, showered, shaved and dressed in clean clothes.
‘I’m done,’ he declared triumphantly.
I gave a big whoop of joy and thrust my arms around his neck. ‘Well done, you!’
‘Do you want to listen? I mean, properly listen? I’ve made a scratch demo.’
‘I’d love to!’
‘Cool.’
Mike scurried off and returned with a USB flash drive. ‘I’ve put it all in mp3 format, so it should play on your stereo. Ready?’
‘Of course.’
Mike plugged in the drive. He called up his list of songs and hit play.A number that I had secretly titled ‘United We Stand’ filled the room, and I swayed to the music.
United we stand, divided we’d fall
This is the greatest truth of them all
When the world gets down on you
When you feel like you are through
Remember that I’m here with you…
Mike regarded me open-mouthed, and I ceased my swaying.
‘What?’
‘You’re singing along.’
‘No, no, it’s all right. I love it. But I am a little surprised.’
‘You’ve been playing this for days,’ I reminded him. ‘It’s one of my favourites. I think you should definitely make this the opener and release it as a single. What are you calling it?’
Mike shrugged. ‘United We Stand?’ It was a question rather than a statement. I jumped with excitement.
‘Yes! That’s what I’ve been calling it too. I love it!’
Mike grinned. ‘You have no idea how much this means.’
‘This what?’ I was at a loss.
‘This. All of it.’ Mike made an expansive gesture with his hand. ‘Being here. Writing, without interruptions. Except for mealtimes, of course.’ He smiled broadly. ‘Having you here. You’re like… You’re my muse.’
I snorted with laughter. ‘Hardly a muse. But I appreciate the thought. It’s been fascinating being part of the process, and I feel really privileged.’
‘Bless you.’ Mike hugged me tight.
‘What’s next?’ I wanted to know when he let go of me and I got my breath back.
‘Next,’ Mike declared with palpable excitement, ‘you and I shall go talent hunting.’
‘Talent hunting?’
‘Yup. I want to assemble Fallen For Rock from a group of talented unknown young musicians. We’re going to do the gig circuit and keep our eyes and ears wide open.’
‘Sounds exciting.’
‘Oh, I can’t wait. I’ve some ideas, you know, people I heard about… I want to get them on board so we can lay down demos properly. My old label will consider them—’
‘They will?’ I couldn’t hide my surprise. ‘After everything that happened with MonX?’
Mike pulled a face but launched a wicked smile at me. ‘Especially after everything that happened. They’re not stupid. They know who was behind the music. So Greg—’
‘Greg?’ I was mentally taking notes for my folder.
‘Greg Grearsby. Our rep at the label. He said right off the bat he would always be interested in stuff I wrote. I called him yesterday. He’s ready and waiting.’
‘Wow. What about your agent? Is it wise going to the label directly, all on your own?’ I suddenly realised that I had no idea how MonX had worked beyond the contract situation and the fact that Adam was their manager.
‘I don’t have an agent. Agents are mostly in charge of booking gigs and making sure that the band has work. Adam did that for us as well as looking after our career and growth while it lasted.’
I digested this information for a moment. ‘So apart from me doing your publicity, you don’t want any representation for Fallen For Rock?’
Mike shot me a shocked look. ‘Of course I do. I need to find us a manager, and a good one, too. Someone to push us and mould us and make us great.’ He paused for breath. ‘I thought about asking Adam, but he didn’t trust me when the band was falling apart, and that’s not a good basis. Meanwhile, if I have an opening at the label, I might as well show them my stuff. Sometimes, you’ve got to do things backwards.’
‘Ah. I see.’
‘Trust me. It’ll all come together. Band first, proper demo next, and we’ll tackle the rest from there.’
‘Sounds good to me. Bring it on!’ I did a cheerleader-style twirl with imaginary pompoms, and Mike laughed.
‘You’re a star, Emily.’
Chapter Forty-One
‘Your toupee is slipping.’
I tugged at a black lock of hair curling over Mike’s eyebrow. Mike swatted my hand away with a goofy grin.
‘It’s not a toupee,’ he retorted. ‘It’s a bespoke wig, and it can’t possibly be slipping.’
‘Well, it is. You look like you have a dead cat on your head.’
‘That’s not very nice.’ Mike pretended to be hurt. We were in the Guns ‘n’ Roses pub in Ealing for a gig of The Rough Shods, a new local band. Mike had heard that the drummer was meant to be phenomenal. Fearing being recognised, Mike was in deep disguise. In addition to the definitely skew-whiff black wig, he also wore sunglasses that rendered him more or less blind inside the dark pub.
His rationale was simple. ‘If I’m a bit of a nutter, the band won’t take any notice of me and simply do their thing. If I turn up as me, I’ll either get booed, or the band will fall over themselves to impress me. I don’t want either of that to happen.’
In fact, as disguises went, this was one of his less bizarre attires. Over the past three weeks, I had been to a dozen pubs and as many gigs with Elvis, Michael, a bald man with buck teeth, a bouncer, a pimp, and a Magnum, PI lookalike complete with moustache (first Nate, then Mike: what was it with rock stars and their like of the colourfully-dressed eighties sleuth?).
To begin with, Mike insisted that I match his theme, but I had drawn the line there. I was trying to establish myself in a professional capacity, and I couldn’t—and wouldn’t—do so in skimpy sequined outfits or white block heels. Instead, I had donned what I considered my new rock chick suprema uniform: boot-cut hipster jeans, a tight-fitting white T-shirt, a tailored black leather jacket, my favourite black clogs, and a pair of sunglasses perched in my rocked-up mane. Glam, cool, fitting the scene, but a little more sedate and sophisticated.
I returned my attention to his slipping hairdo. ‘You should definitely visit the men’s room,’ I suggested. ‘You do look like you’re balancing a furry animal on your head.’
Mike rolled his eyes but obediently trotted off to fix his appearance. I went to the bar and got us drinks before elbowing my way towards the front and installing myself boldly at a table.
‘You don’t mind, do ya?’ I smiled at the two men already in situ.
‘Not at all,’ one of them replied after looking me up and down. ‘Chicks like you are always welcome.’ He nudge-nudge-wink-winked his friend suggestively, but I paid no attention. Leering and crass innuendos were bouncing off of me like water off a duck’s back these days.
Mike rejoined me, wig duly balanced, and sipped at his beer.
‘So, who’s here?’ he prompted. He knew about my grand plan for building up a network of contacts, and he had prepped me personally on some of the key figures in the industry, plus the tells for who’s who: journalists, agents, band managers, tour managers, venue managers and so on. I had been startled by the layers of representation involved for some of the world’s biggest rock acts but duly filed the knowledge for future reference. Now, I had fun applying some of it.
‘A couple of journalists, probably from the music mags. Although see that chap there?’
I subtly pointed my bottle towards a man sporting a paunch and an AC/DC shirt over ironed trousers.
‘Yeah. What about him?’
‘I reckon he’s local press and way out of his comfort zone.’
Mike raised his eyebrows. I could just see them peeping out above his impossible sunglasses when he did. ‘What makes you say that?’
I gave an amused snort. ‘For starters, he’s borrowed the shirt. It’s too small.’
‘He might have grown out of it.’
‘It’s from a gig they played last year. He would have bought it to fit, if it were his. Or he would’ve had to have eaten a lotof junk food to put on so much weight.’
‘Point taken,’ Mike conceded. ‘But surely that’s not all your evidence.’
‘Nah.’ I shook my head. ‘The trousers are the clinching factor. They’re office trousers. I reckon he was put on this assignment at short notice, given a shirt to look authentic, and has no idea what to expect or how to write about this.’
Mike waggled his head. ‘You might be right. Poor man. Anyone else I should know about?’
‘That bloke there…’ I engaged in more surreptitious pointing. ‘He must be the band manager. See how his eyes are everywhere—on the stage, on the sound desk, on the audience…’
I gave Mike a moment to observe, and he nod
ded. ‘I agree with you. He looks like a manager man to me.’
‘Hm. I bet someone is going to get a bollocking about having alcohol on stage.’
‘What? Really?’ Mike turned to follow my gaze. One of the roadies had set down a couple of bottles of beer next to the guitarist’s microphone. The manager was making energetic throat-cutting motions with his hand, but the roadie was oblivious.
‘Oops.’ Mike grimaced. ‘What a rookie mistake.’
‘Indeed. You did say they were new to the scene.’
‘I did, but still.’ He frowned.
‘Don’t let it put you off. Maybe it’s for motivation, you know, to get through the set. Maybe the guy suffers from nerves.’ I paused slightly before delivering my pièce de résistance. ‘Anyway, you might like to know that Iron Dave is here.’
‘Iron Dave?’ Mike nearly choked on his drink. ‘The Iron Dave? How do you know? How do you know about him, for that matter?’
I shrugged nonchalantly. ‘It’s my job to know these things.’
Iron Dave was an iconic manager. He specialised in rock bands, although he represented most genres, and he was always on the lookout for tomorrow’s big act.
‘But how do you know what he looks like? Have you met him?’
That was a good question. Iron Dave was a legend, not least for keeping his identity strictly secret. Not unlike Mike, he wanted to see bands ‘au naturel’. There was no photo of him on his company’s website or anywhere on the Internet.
‘Not yet. I’m building up to that.’
‘So how do you know?’
I grinned. ‘I overheard someone talking to him last week when you were busy chatting with that bassist. I grew Spock ears and eavesdropped unashamedly until I was certain. I took a photo so I wouldn’t forget.’ I dug my phone out of my purse and scrolled through my photo gallery. ‘There.’
‘Oh. My. God. You are unbelievable.’ Mike stared at me with his mouth hanging open.
‘Well. I’ve got to learn these things, and fast. Right? So anyway…’ I placed a finger under Mike’s chin to close his mouth. ‘This is both good news and bad news. Good news, because the band really must be good, otherwise Iron Dave wouldn’t bother showing up. And bad news, because you’ve got to get in there before he does.’
