How Soon is Now?: The Madmen and Mavericks who made Independent Music 1975-2005

by King, Richard

  ‘I remember sitting at the top of the stairs in my house speaking to Rob and he was going, “This sound, if we just keep doing it over and over again, it’s just going to dilute what we’re doing. We’ve got to move on,”’ says Beckett. ‘All the demos we were getting at that time – it was just watered-down versions of Aphex and Autechre. We wanted to definitely look further afield and Broadcast were just one of those unusual bands.’

  To the braindance masses, Warp signing Broadcast was not only a departure for the label, but a move that represented something of a betrayal of its purist electronic roots. For Beckett and Mitchell, any need to justify signing a real-life, instrument-playing, five-piece band, was symbolic of how much the label had to change. It would also be a change that would initially prove expensive. ‘We’d come out of a history of people like Aphex Twin just walking in going, “Here’s your DAT,”’ says Beckett, ‘a DAT that, once it’s mastered, is going to sell 200,000 copies with no recording costs. Whereas someone like Broadcast, you’re putting them in studios working with producers, and so from a financial perspective, it got a lot tougher, but in terms of long-term growth it was obvious.’

  Another, more fundamental change was Warp’s relocation from Sheffield to London. ‘We were just up and down, either on the motorway driving or constantly taking trains,’ says Beckett. ‘We were just starting to get aspirations for setting up the film company, and all the film funding and Channel 4 and all that was down in London –it was just starting to feel like it was not a definite thing but a possibility, so we moved.’

  In 1998 Warp released Music Has the Right to Children by its latest signings, Boards of Canada. The album was an immersive listening experience; it echoed the headphone contemplation of the Artificial Intelligence series and added a disorientating layer of hazy nostalgia. Music Has the Right to Children’s sleeve was a fading, semi-perceptible family photograph. It perfectly captured the record’s atmosphere of haunted reflection. To Warp’s delight the album became one its strongest sellers, via the medium of word of mouth alone. Part of the album’s strength and cohesion lay in the band’s long gestation period, a trait they shared with other Warp artists like Squarepusher and Aphex Twin. ‘You meet people that have been doing all their work for years and years,’ says Beckett. ‘Boards had got this massive catalogue of stuff before they actually released anything. That’s why the stuff seems of a certain standard, ’cause I think a lot of artists just make something, then five minutes later they’ve put it out.’

  The timing of Boards of Canada’s release was also significant. Their album was released into a wider cultural landscape, one in which the Internet and information technology were starting to prevail. Warp’s releases became the daily soundtrack for a techie, Wired-reading audience of programmers and web designers as they set about building the digital future.

  Warp became one of the first record companies to engage with the Internet, having been exposed to it via the popularity of its artists among the early-adapting digerati. ‘The Black Dog were on newsgroups before there were websites,’ says Beckett. ‘They were the ones that started pointing us towards it. I definitely at that time put all my eggs in the technology basket. I was absolutely convinced that guitar music would just become extinct and that the only thing that people would be interested in was music made by electronics.’

  Warp launched its website, Warpnet, in 1997. As a consequence of the label’s popularity with the digitally literate, Beckett and Mitchell gradually became aware of the risks inherent in the new technology. ‘I had a meeting in Sheffield and had the Internet explained to me,’ says Beckett, ‘so I got the computer, bought the modem and did all this logging in and expected to be surfing the Internet and having virtual sex and everything within five minutes. We started realising, “Oh my God, this is the future,” but we didn’t at that time realise it was also a real threat as well. When somebody first sent me an MP3 I thought, “Hold on, why couldn’t I just send this to somebody else?” “You could.” “But why couldn’t I send it to 10,000 people?” and it really hit me.’

  Another more serious factor emerged that was likely to affect Warp’s future: Beckett’s founding partner, Rob Mitchell, had been taken ill. ‘He was ill and he was getting more and more ill but we didn’t know what it was,’ says Beckett. ‘He had tumours all over his liver and pancreas and was told that he’d got anything from four to six months to live. It was just more numbing than anything. You’re just sitting there going, “What the fuck is going … This doesn’t happen … happens to other people …’

  When Mitchell sadly passed away in 1999, Beckett went on retreat to try to come to terms with the loss, parts of which involved his relationship with the label and how it was going to survive the end of their partnership. ‘After he’d died there was a whole time of personal upheaval and soul-searching. Then on the business side, at the time I thought I was totally handling it, but looking back I realise I was just scrabbling around, not really knowing what I was doing. We always did pretty much everything together, so we’d master a record together, we’d travel down to London together – so we were just constantly bashing ideas off and then suddenly that element was gone. He was probably a lot more confident verbally and socially and the main thing that slipped was the connection to a lot of the artists. We split the roster between us so I was having to get those deep connections back with people – that was the hardest thing.’

  Warp had lost Mitchell and the process of recovery began with the company consolidating many of the ideas he and Beckett had been developing. One of the most significant was the establishment of Warp Films in 2000.

  Beckett also saw that his peers in independence at Domino and XL were operating with a renewed confidence and vigour. ‘I went for a meal with Laurence,’ he says. ‘It was before Franz broke. We both had the penny drop that, actually, we’re both quite good at selling records by really difficult artists, really difficult music – what could we do if we actually went for some of these bands that are ambitious and have got potential hits?’

  Maximo Park, a band from Newcastle, had caught Beckett’s attention. Despite having offers on the table from several majors, the band’s management was happy to consider whatever offer Warp was prepared to make. For the first time in his career, Beckett found himself in the environs of pub back-room gigs in the midst of a major-label feeding frenzy. ‘I didn’t know if I could do that,’ he says, ‘turning up to these gigs where all the fucking A&R men are there and people whispering that so and so had signed it already. We were suddenly operating outside our comfort zone, especially once we’d signed them it’s like, “Shit, we’ve got to do it now.” That’s even harder.’

  *

  By 2005 Domino had sold over four million Franz Ferdinand records worldwide, the White Stripes and the Strokes were multiplatinum artists and independence, in contrast to the ailing major-label business, was thriving. It was a situation that would be put into sharp relief by the sector’s next breakaway success, Arctic Monkeys.

  By the middle of the decade Mike Smith had risen to the position of MD at EMI Music Publishing, a division of the company that had remained profitable compared with the ailing EMI record label. Along with other colleagues at the heart of the industry, Smith had heard rumours of a young Sheffield quartet who were attracting unprecedented record-label attention, including that of the wizened music biz old guard.

  ‘The Arctic Monkeys were interesting, because, I remember, there was a serious A&R scrum in the spring of 2005. You were getting old-school A&R guys like Gordon Chartman, who’d signed Bros, saying, “I’ve seen this band, they’re really amazing.” And then Louis Bloom, who’d signed Busted, was going, “Arctic Monkeys are really fucking great,” and I went up to check it out in Stoke and I was just blown away. You had somebody out front who was really sharp and witty and flirting with everyone, all the boys and girls in the crowd, and you had these amazing songs, incredibly infectious, hook-laden, punk rock.’

  Arctic
Monkeys were content to play around their native Sheffield and its neighbouring towns. The band had no desire to play to a showcase audience in London, a decision that had instantly made their signatures on a recording contract even more covetable. The band had the same effect on everyone who travelled north to see them and Smith put word through that he was interested in signing the band to a publishing deal. By the time Smith had managed to start a dialogue with the band’s management, he realised that he was in a fast-developing situation. Several record companies believed they were close to acquiring the band and a lawyer had been instructed to draw up contracts. ‘Obviously I wanted to work with them, and in the blink of an eye everybody wanted to work with them in the world, because they were just so undeniably fucking good – I think in my whole career, no band’s been more obviously destined to be successful – and then they made the decision to go with Domino, and the irony is, Laurence wasn’t leading the charge.’

  The band’s decision to sign with Bell caught the industry, and particularly the pack that been in the hunt for the band’s signatures, completely off-guard. Domino had not been early to register any interest in Arctic Monkeys. There was a lingering impression that Bell had somehow managed to spirit the band away from underneath the competition’s feet.

  As a publisher Mike Smith was in a position that put him at first remove from the hothouse of record company A&R departments. To him the band’s decision made perfect sense. ‘Every single A&R man in England wanted to sign the band,’ he says. ‘By working with Domino, I think they knew that they had somebody who would let them pursue their own artistic vision.’

  Bell had been aware of the growing commotion attaching itself to the Sheffield band, but his instincts had told him that any band commanding such an intense focus was probably destined to become major-label hype. ‘I’d just been hearing the name a bit,’ he says. ‘We didn’t have an A&R department or anything, so whatever’s going on uptown, so to speak, was never really that alluring to me.’

  Once colleagues and contacts from within his own circle started mentioning the band’s name, Bell felt duty bound to explore further. ‘Trusted friends started to say, “You’d really like this band, you should really hear them,”’ he says. ‘I went round to see this guy who had the tape and he played it and burnt me off a CD, and my jaw fell on the floor when I heard it, and I took it home and I just couldn’t stop playing it and, “Oh my God, this is it.”’

  As Bell registered his interest with the band’s management company, he was politely informed that to have his name added to the lengthening list of suitors would be of little consequence. With his confidence at a post-Franz high, and with a natural affinity for musicians that is rare in A&R, Bell was determined to at least become part of the conversation. ‘The manager had told me, “Oh, there’s about twenty-five labels and they’ve seen more than they ever wanted to. They’re not really that interested anyway, it’s just a bit too late.” So it was just a process of trying to undo that and get a chance to meet with them.’

  John Dyer, an industry veteran who had previously worked at Mute, had been asked to join the Domino staff following the success of Franz Ferdinand; he had a rolling brief, one that included ensuring the company made best use of its newly secured fiscal position. If the label could sign an act with a similar commercial potential to the Glaswegian band, Domino could maintain its momentum as a cornerstone of independence. ‘Laurence was told by the Arctics’ manager that they’re about to sign with someone,’ he says. ‘“You’re allowed to see them but you’re not allowed to go backstage and talk to them and mess with their heads, all right?” He goes and sees them and he rings them back. I get a text from him saying, “Went well, they’ve invited me back.” Next thing, they have to ring up their lawyer who’s been holding back the whole industry, it’s probably reached a couple of million quid or something so the lawyer is in a tight spot now, he’s kind of vaguely promised it to someone, then suddenly, hang on, there’s a hold-up.’

  ‘I snagged a meeting with the manager the following Tuesday,’ says Bell, ‘and one thing led to another and the conversations were good. Then, I was invited up to Sheffield, then I was invited back again, and that was how it happened.’

  Even by the standards of the accelerated pace and heightened sense of anticipation that starts to surround a hyper-hot, unsigned band, the Arctic Monkeys’ signing to Domino left the industry breathless. ‘It all happened in about ten days,’ says Bell. ‘From hearing them to signing them, it was all done in about ten days. We were genuinely independent, they were genuinely independent-minded, and we had Franz Ferdinand under our belt, we had the hottest band in the world at that moment, and we’d just sold four million records for them.’

  Once Arctic Monkeys were signed, the impetus around the band continued. Such was the demand for their sold-out London debut that the venue was upgraded to the 1,400-capacity Astoria. ‘The whole strategy after that was to keep them outside of London media,’ says Dyer. ‘This is so hot that media hasn’t spotted it.’

  What the mainstream media had also failed to spot was the fact that the band were being much discussed and shared on the Internet. Although the band had released only one 7-inch single, many of the crowd in the Astoria were already singing along to the words of every song. In a search for a narrative, the press labelled Arctic Monkeys ‘The first MySpace band’.

  ‘It wasn’t MySpace,’ says Bell. ‘It was file sharing and it was word of mouth. It was on the first level of Internet insanity. The kids were swapping it, and that was just going on independently – it wasn’t a MySpace thing. The band had given away demos of these songs, they’d made ten CDRs of their songs, taken them to sell at gigs and had a couple of beers and given them away. It was on The Others’ forum that the Monkeys were blowing up, it was in that post-Libertines moment. It was also something up in the north as well; the ownership was there for the fans, because they kept out of London and the media hadn’t introduced them and it was outside of all that.’

  The Others were one of the handful of bands that had landed a record deal by using the Libertines’ tactics of guerrilla gigs and posting their music online. Although their career was short, they were representative of the new energies and expectations surrounding young bands: to interact with the public away from the established media and to communicate directly with their fans and peers via the Internet, where such activity could be formalised on a band’s official MySpace site. The Arctic Monkeys, however, had ignored MySpace until after their debut album was released.

  ‘It’s a complete myth, because that’s media trying to explain it after the fact,’ says Dyer. ‘It’s like a journalist trying to intellectualise house music … “House music’s moved on.” “Why, what do you mean, what’s it done?” “It’s progressed, it’s progressive house.” So media thought, “Oh, hang on, MySpace has come into the public consciousness, people are communicating via MySpace – oh, hang on, MySpace must have created the Arctic Monkeys.” It became a hoover-vacuum-type phrase to describe the arrival of music being spread around the net.’

  The forthcoming Arctic Monkeys album had generated sufficient interest for HMV to take the unusual step of issuing a press release. The retailer announced that it was anticipating record sales, enough to make Whatever People Say I Am, That’s What I’m Not the fastest-selling debut album on record. As an example of the light-speed with which new music was now being consumed in an instant fix, the statement and the record caught the public imagination.

  ‘I was halfway down the touchline watching my son play football,’ says Dyer. ‘There was a guy down the touchline from me who runs Reuters news, media division, and he’d got the vibe. He’d heard about it, and he came up to me three times, and says, “I’d like to do a news spike on the Arctic Monkeys, can you get me access?” The Sky News ticker was running it as a story. It was a moment in time that acknowledged the end of a marketing age and the arrival of a consumer-driven age. You couldn’t plan for it, you couldn’t
market for it, it was entirely of its own momentum.’

  Whatever Arctic Monkeys’ relationship with the Internet or MySpace, one thing was becoming increasingly evident; the days of a record like Whatever People Say I Am, That’s What I’m Not succeeding on such a large scale were drawing to an end. Illegal downloading and file sharing were becoming ubiquitous and, for a younger audience, the most popular way of consuming music. Record sales became decimated by the advance in new technologies and the music industry entered into a period of terminal decline.

  To the independents, who had always been forced to operate on tight margins and be sensitive to the headwinds of the market, the major labels’ response seemed both ignorant and, possibly, fatal. Rather than move into partnership with tech companies to adjust to the digital age, the majors resorted to lobbying and litigation.

  ‘They had all that time and all that money, and they just couldn’t put their egos aside and get together and find a solution to just cook up digital distribution,’ says Bell. ‘They could’ve owned Napster and have the brand name that everybody could go to, and do what iTunes did. Instead, they lost the means of distribution to iTunes and they just sat there and let it all roll out and then they just lost everything.’

  From his vantage point at EMI Publishing, Mike Smith was well placed to see the industry’s response and, like Bell, realised that the decisions being taken by the major record companies were short-termist and ill considered. ‘As a publisher you’re sort of sat on the sidelines, screaming about the opportunity that was being missed by the major labels. They couldn’t work out a proper direction and had to be led by the nose by iTunes to do it. When BMG [Bertelsmann Music Group] bought Napster, that was an opportunity for the whole of the music industry to buy into it all and have a very legitimate online service. Instead, the whole music industry banded together and shut it down. So many opportunities were lost.’