by Wesley Stace
“What?” said Jack. “I thought we were only out here to have meetings.”
“Look, we know you’re not Menudo,” said Sylvie, glittering. They had no idea what she was talking about.
“Things are happening,” said Craig, the fat guru who, by dint of having said very little, seemed in charge. He held his hands together in a way that seemed very considered, only the thumbs and fingertips touching. His accent was so specifically transatlantic that you couldn’t tell which side he was betraying. “Simeon’s House—that’s a big deal. That’s every kid in America. That’s you in the big time.” His smile was one of mutual, but mostly self-, congratulation.
Sylvie laughed: “It has a 3.4 share. We’ll show you tapes. Guys, it’s a big deal.”
“Wow,” said Blake; the water was waking him up and he needed to pee. “How did that happen?”
“Well, how it happened is great songs, my friend,” said Craig, leading the table in polite, courtly applause. “We’re very excited about the album. Very excited.”
“It’s a great album,” said Greg. He knew how to enthuse about an album.
“It is. It’s full of great songs.”
“It’s a Tour de France,” said Greg.
“You’re right,” said Craig, smiling beatifically again. “It’s a Tour de France. I like that. And how did Simeon’s House happen . . . Jim?” This was clearly the pre-game, but it was tough to predict what was actually going to happen when the whistle blew, what the game might actually be when it kicked off. It wasn’t like any meeting Greg had ever attended. It was a business meeting.
“Yeah,” said Jim. “We played “Rock Around the Bed” to the powers that be. They loved it. And they had a cancellation for next Saturday—it actually tapes on Thursday, which is, obviously, in three days’ time—and . . . was it Prince that canceled?”
“Prince,” confirmed Sylvie.
“Prince!” enthused Blake, conveniently ignoring “three days’ time.”
“Do you remember that Prince story about the guitar tech who was dressed as Prince and got locked out of the gig?” asked Greg, seeing an open window.
“As Craig says, great songs,” said Jim, with renewed focus. “And it’s going to be you guys instead.”
“The Wunderkinds instead of Prince,” said Blake, pinching himself.
“Just run the name by me one more time?” asked Craig as though thinking aloud. He couldn’t quite bring himself to say it.
“The Wunderkinds,” said Blake.
“With a V, right?” asked Craig. “Vunderkints?” He shook his head: the wine was corked. “That’s the problem.”
“It’s German,” said Blake.
“Exactly. A lot of Americans don’t speak German.”
“A lot of Americans don’t like Germans,” confirmed Jim.
Blake narrowed his eyes: a lot of Americans are German.
“We’ve come up with an option,” said Craig. “An alternative. The Wunderkinds is a great name, but, perhaps, just perhaps, it’s been something of an obstacle to your success in England. Perhaps it’s . . . to blame.” He certainly knew where to put the emphasis in a sentence.
“Because people don’t like Germans?” asked Blake.
“Because people don’t like a word they’re not totally confident they can pronounce. It might make them think twice about buying the record. It might make a DJ think twice about playing a record.”
“We say: ‘When you play it, say it!’ said John by way of explanation. “But if they can’t say it . . .”
“We’ve come up with a plan,” continued Craig, “where . . . Heidi?”
And Heidi, with her long brown hair, stood up, smiled, and unveiled a whiteboard they hadn’t noticed before, on which was a splendid new logo with, underneath it, in bold letters: YOUR CHILD’S FIRST ROCK BAND. At first, neither Blake, Jack nor Greg noticed that the logo didn’t say Wunderkinds at all. It said WONDERKIDS.
There was silence. Glances were exchanged: nervous, flirtatious, hopeful. Bands are a democracy, supposedly, and no one wanted to commit himself to saying something that would greatly annoy his brother or his manager. But the silence had to be broken.
“Wow,” said Blake. “Your child’s first rock band. That’s fucking heavy. Sorry.” The name-change hadn’t registered.
“What do you think?” asked Craig. He focused solely on the logo. “Heidi designed it.”
“It’s great,” said Jack. “Well done, Heidi.”
“Yeah,” said Greg, nodding like a bobblehead. It was so obvious which of them would be fighting over Heidi. She seemed more realistically attainable than the mythical Sylvie.
“And the name, the Wonderkids,” said Craig. “It rings true.” The handsome men and strikingly good-looking women nodded. “It’s a name this record company can get behind. Now about the album,” said Craig, that decision apparently taken. “John, you had some thoughts.” It was like a party game where Craig threw a ball out and the rest of the team had to keep it in the air as long as possible.
“Well, yes. We think we should change the title, if you like any of the ones that we’ve come up with.”
“I don’t mind Wonderkids, but what’s wrong with JabberRock?” asked Jack.
“We think JabberRock is great. We think it’s perfect for England. We think we can go one better for America,” said John. “That’s our aspiration: one better.”
“How about One Better?” asked Blake. They did not understand that it wasn’t a non sequitur. “That’s a good title for a debut album.” He paused for a response that was never going to be forthcoming. “Okay. What have you got?”
Greg sighed. The band had been able to go with the flow at Endymion, float along as the label made their tidy edits and their tweaks to the album’s cover art. That had been the deal with the devil, this was the pay-off, the pound of flesh: a new name for the band (though even he knew it was better—Wunderkinds had never tripped off his tongue) and now a new name for the album. You had to pick your battles in rock ’n’ roll, but the miracle was that Blake and Jack hadn’t lost it yet. Greg couldn’t take his eyes off Heidi, the logo lady. Was it she who took out the little blade and actually extracted the flesh? Maybe she had a pair of scales on her. How much was a pound anyway? Greg’s thoughts were muddled. He was getting itchy.
John consulted his notes, his list of titles: “The Kids Are Alright.”
Jack was about to say “It’s a Who record,” but Greg preempted him with a gentle hand on his arm.
“There are quite a few. This One’s for the Babies. I’ll Be Your Baby Tonight.”
“Bring that Baby Bottle Over Here?” suggested Blake. John reeled off about twenty more: “You see, it’s all part of our rebranding of the Wonderkids.”
“We’re not content for you to have hit singles,” said Craig. “We’re not content for you to sell out shows everywhere; we’re not content with that.”
“Anyone can do that,” said John.
“Brilliant,” said Greg, whose eyes seemed to be experiencing a kind of misty rapture. Wonderkids. Wonderkids.
“We see something new here,” said Craig. “You know, I’ll be frank. We could go to central casting right now and create a band to meet our needs. Like they did with the Monkees. Like Milli Vanilli. But with you, we see—Norm sees—the real thing: we think the kids are going to love you. No one’s ever tried to do what we’re going to do. And if we want to do this together, we’re ready to go all the way.”
“All the way,” said Nick from England, still hiding just underneath the table. “All the way!”
“But I’m not going to dick around.” Suddenly Craig was speed talking. “We have ideas. And we’ll help you. We need you to grow two new members by the TV show, because we want to present you as a band; we have some people we want you to see; we need to make some tough decisions on the album, on its title, on the cover, on the edits we want to do . . .”
“They already did edits in England,” said Jack, more-or-
less firmly.
“That’s why they’re tough decisions. Also, we’re worried about some of the language, specifically the vocabulary; we need to talk about image. We’ve done some market research. We’ve talked to educators. We’re thinking of perhaps replacing a few of the songs with a couple of new ones. For example, we’re wondering whether we should replace the song about old people . . .”
“Old Persons?” said Blake.
“Our research tells us that kids don’t want to hear about old people.”
“Well,” said Blake. “You’re wrong. Sorry. Your research is wrong. Kids love old people because they’re weird and wrinkly and they smell unique. They give you presents. They squeeze money into your hand when you’re saying goodbye. They say funny things you weren’t expecting, just like kids. And also because they’re old, because age involves a lot of counting and kids love to count. Kids love old people. You’re parents, right?” Nobody either side of the table had children.
Craig looked perplexed at this moment of discord—it hadn’t been on the agenda—but otherwise ignored it: “We’re wondering if we could get you into the studio real fast, like this week. Do you have any songs ready to go? Repetitive? Simple?”
“Chorus at the top?” suggested Blake, his knee pinging up and down.
“Chorus at the top. We’re talking the same language. We’re boldly going, you know what I mean, Greg?”
“Star Trek,” Greg replied automatically, as though his function was to gloss every reference. In fact, he felt like he was watching a game of tennis with his neck in a brace.
“And is Andy there?” asked Nick from his office in England. Andy?
“Ah yes,” said Craig. “We’ve got someone else we want you to meet: he’s someone we think can help you specifically, Greg, navigate these hallowed halls.”
“Show me where the toilets are, kinda thing?” Greg had been writing this script for years.
“More than that; help you with the wild world beyond. Andy has a company, which, if you’d like, is at your disposal. They work for us, and they work for you. They’ll put up posters; they’ll set up meetings; they’ll take the meetings if you can’t be bothered.”
“What actually are they, this company?” asked Jack.
Craig stabbed at the intercom: “Could you send Andy in?”
And in walked Andy Light, at which point the whistle blew and the game began.
“Let there be Light!” said Craig, a joke around which he mimed inverted commas in recognition of the fact that it was old.
“And there was light!” answered Andy, shaking manly hands, reserving special bird-like pecks for female cheeks. It was almost possible to believe that he hadn’t decided the exact timing of his materialization himself. “Andy Light: Light Speed Management. It’s so great to meet you both,” he said, ignoring Greg.
“And this is Greg Sugar,” said Craig.
“Greg! Greg! Your reputation precedes you,” said Andy, fixing Greg with laser-like focus. In that moment, Greg saw his exit strategy. He couldn’t have planned it better; he had sunburn on the back of his neck and he wanted to go home. The record company saw him as a weak link, and a weak link he was willing to be. He’d heard of acts wooed away from their management while they were on the road, when someone had a chance to work on them away from home, but he’d never seen it done in such brazen fashion before. He was overjoyed. The truth is that if he hadn’t wanted to be replaced, he wouldn’t have even have figured out what exactly was happening. Did the boys know what was happening?
“So Wonderkids? Wonderkids?” Andy scanned the room, eyes full of suggestion. Craig nodded once. “Wonderkids it is! Yes! The Big Bang!” It seemed this might have been his idea. “We’re here to help in any which way we can. Craig?”
“Yes, Andy is here to help you in any which way he can.”
“Like what?” said Jack. “I’m sure we need help with everything, but what in particular?”
“I can be your eyes, your ears.” Both options seemed unnecessary, slightly paranoid. “We need to find you an agent. Greg, any ideas?”
“Well, actually, old Nicksy at Renaissance Artists; he’s expressed an interest and we were going to have a chat.”
“Old friend of yours?” asked Andy.
“Yeah.”
“Great. Perfect. I think we can maybe even shoot a little higher.”
“Go one better,” said John.
“One better!” said Blake. “It’s not bad.”
“I think we can go to the top,” Andy continued. “The gigs are going to make this thing work. Let me say one word: merchandise.”
“Go on,” said Jack.
“Well, you’re selling T-shirts and CDs, right?” Jack nodded. “No one’s ever really thought of this before, because no one has tried to sell this sort of music before, in this way. We’ve been talking, we’ve been thinking: the point is that the merchandise is not really for the kids, is it? It’s for the parents.”
“Yeah,” said Jack. Greg seemed to have zoned out, but Jack felt that perhaps someone from their team should be paying attention.
“Kids have no money. They have pocket money, small change, and short attention spans. Parents have money. They’ve already bought the concert ticket; they’ve already seen you on TV; they want a memento for their children; they want something with educational value; and we’re going to sell them what they want. Kids like activities, right? Kids like to have something to do. Busy hands are happy hands, right?” Everyone in the room, except Jack, Blake, and Greg, was enraptured as Andy explained how the world works. “We see Wonderkid educational toys. Because everything, everything, is an opportunity to learn. And wherever there is an opportunity to learn, there is an opportunity to make money.”
“Good old Andy,” said Craig, in avuncular fashion, giving Blake and Jack that friendly grin: “Boys, if you’re squeamish about money, block your ears now. If you want to pretend all this isn’t happening, then you might wanna pop out and grab a Sprite right about now and we’ll give you the lowdown in thirty minutes.”
“We’re not squeamish,” said Jack.
“Well,” Andy continued, warming to the task. “There’s a whole world of direct sales that can play into everyone’s notion of tasteful merchandise. Don’t assume the music makes the most profit. It is the most important thing, of course; but it’s only one way to make money; it’s one slice of the pie. And above all, the joy of teaching these kids things; educating them; showing them the world; being that child’s first rock band.”
“Quack!” said Blake in interruption, his leg now jiggling violently. Noticing this, he placed his right hand on it, stopped it still, then looked up and smiled, like he’d calmed a wild beast. “I’m sure that’s all true, but I like kids, and I know what they like. We have this thing where we don’t care about it making sense so much. We don’t want to preach at them. Does it all have to mean something? In a few years time, all they’re going to be getting is songs about the environment going to hell and how there aren’t any more animals. Let other people be teachers.” He started to talk faster just as Craig had. No one, even Jack, had ever heard him enunciate it all so clearly; it was as though he had an entire coherent and binding philosophy he’d never bothered to share. “And the adults are the same: what they like at our shows is that they get back that childish sense of wonder for just a little while; it’s like a dream for them, and they catch a little of the mayhem with the kids. So the parents are like the kids—except they want a little bit of the awe back, because they lost it, because they’re not kids anymore.
“And with our nonsense, we’re sending out a little challenge. Children like to be horrified, and scandalized, and made to laugh, and scared. Just like adults. I mean, just think of Struwwelpeter. It’s for children and adults. That’s why we as a band don’t distinguish between the two.”
No one was thinking of Struwwelpeter, unless Heidi was wondering whether they were the label’s new German heavy metal signing. In
which case, they’d have to change their name too.
“Adults enjoy the shows as well?” asked John, shocked by this left-field revelation.
“Well, yeah, obviously,” said Blake. “We didn’t really start out as a kids’ band.”
“You didn’t?” said Craig. “That’s fantastic!”
“Yeah, we don’t really see it as kids’ music . . .”
“That was my idea,” said Nick from a speaker.
“. . . We see it more as everyone music. We see rock ’n’ roll as everyone music.”
“YES!” whooped Andy. “It is Everyone Music!” The phrase, in his mouth, sprouted capital letters. “We’re gonna help the kids grow up and we’re gonna turn the parents back into kids again. We don’t have to make sense!” Plan A had just flown out the window. He was fast-tracking Plan B. “Who needs sense and education? Let’s have fun. Let’s mean nothing. We’re the id, not the ego. Who needs the ego? The ego’s for idiots! It’s Everyone Music!”
“Then I’ve got an album title for you,” said Blake, caught up in the moment, impressed that Andy had heard him and made a wide turn, particularly impressed with his “ego idiots” line: “Everyone Music.”
“That’s why you’re the man!” said Craig. “That’s why you’re Blake Lear. That’s why you wrote “Rock Around the Bed.” Now that’s an album title!”
“And,” said Greg unexpectedly, “when Woody Guthrie sang a song, he didn’t say “Gather round me, people” or “comrades,” he said “Gather round me, children,” and that’s what you’re doing too; talking to your children—everyone.” It seemed, to Blake, one of the wisest things Greg had ever said.
Andy laid out his vision, developed over a series of consultations with a multiplicity of PR companies. At meeting’s end, he had emerged as the major strategist. By lunchtime, Blake and Jack were happy to have him drive them to Hamburger Hamlet as Greg stayed at the office to catch up with a couple of old acquaintances.
