Sick On You
Page 30
Leaving? Now? Just when the show gets this good? Not likely. We refuse to be ushered. The old guy smiles and the hinge grates.
“Very nice meeting you, boys. I’d like to hear your music sometime. You got a combo, group, what is it?”
“Yeah, band,” I reply. “The Hollywood Brats. I don’t know, though, it’s kind of wild. What do you listen to?”
Behind him, I see Wilf doing an impression of a man practicing semaphore while suffering from a hernia. The old guy strokes his chin. “Ah, you know, I listen to Dino, Tony, Vic Damone, all the paisans. Not Sinatra, though. Can’t stand that pussy.”
I’m just about to tell him that I love Dean Martin when Wilf interjects physically and tugs the sleeve of my dress. “Yeah, well, time to piss . . . uh, leave, lads. Don’t forget that place you’ve got to get to.”
“What place?”
“You remember. That place. That meeting. Ken, you go with them, will you? Make sure they get there.” Then he turns to the old guy. “We love these boys. They’re going to be huge. Bit cheeky, heh, heh, but what can you do?”
Wilf smiles at us. The scientific instrument has yet to be invented that could measure the lack of mirth in his arrangement of stretched lips and gritted teeth. Then Lou pipes up.
“What about the twenty quid?”
Much more accustomed to being the extorter than the extorted, Wilf is slow to get it, but get it he does. If looks could punch a guy in the guts while two other guys hold his arms, Lou would be puking his breakfast beer all over the expensive white carpet.
Wilf plunges a hand into his pocket, pulls out a fat roll of bills, peels off a purple one, and hands it to Lou. He smiles that frosty smile and looks longingly at Lou’s bony kneecaps in the black pedal pushers, as though hoping to encounter them some other time, some other abandoned warehouse in the East End.
Lou and I stand up. So does Ken, unraveling himself upward until he’s on his feet. Then, caught in that limbo zone between cool and irretrievably daft, he sashays toward the door blowing smoke like a camp locomotive, languid wrist holding aloft his hundredth cig as though he’s fording a chin-high river and daren’t let it get soggy.
He says, “Yeah, roight . . . it’s, ah . . . yeah, roight, then.”
Wilf does a pirouette, like the hippo in Disney’s Fantasia, and grabs Ken’s arm on the way by. He squeezes a squeeze worth at least a thousand words more than a picture. Ken nods. “Yeah. You got it, maaan.”
Just before he reaches the lower-primate hanky dispensers, Ken turns and does an awkward salute-cum-genuflect curtsey at the dapper mobster, then dives backward through the door.
Lou pats the old guy on the shoulder. The gorillas tense up. Wilf steadies himself on his desk. “So, take it easy, sir,” says Lou.
“Yeah, nice meeting you,” says me.
The mobster smiles benignly, gives a little wave, and works the rusty hinge. “See you on the jukeboxes, boys.”
See you on the jukeboxes.*
V
It is beyond frustrating watching the dross on Top of the Pops and Old Grey Weasel Fest. Why can’t Ken get us a deal and get our record out there? Tempers are short. We’re all arguing more and more.
Brady has bought a Vox Marauder guitar. It’s an absolute beauty and he says he’s written a song with it. Which means he’s got a riff and two chords, tops. As suspected, it’s a riff. Not a bad riff, though. I tape it, get the key, and tell him I’ll have a bash at it.
Up in my black-and-pink eyrie, I have worked on Brady’s threadbare little excuse for a song and managed to knock it into presentable shape with verses, chorus, instrumental break, and all the rest. The riff is the main attraction. It is more poppy than anything else we do, so maybe it will fit the straitjacket remit from 27 Dover Street.
It started life in my head as “Hello, Sailor” and almost immediately began veering off course and into a whining ode to camp androgyny. Sort of like something Cockney Rebel might lisp-synch on Top of the Pops. Can’t have that. So once I get the structure I just start singing whatever comes out. What comes out is, “I just want you to be my baby,” over and over again. Fits like a glove but I can’t call the bloody thing “Be My Baby.” It’s not very Brat-like and, besides, the Ronettes have the “Be My Baby” franchise sewn up. I let it ride. I’ll think up a snappier title later.
We rehearse it for two days in a rectangular, narrow room in King’s Cross that stinks of fags and failed musicians. Casino doesn’t seem overly thrilled with this Matheson-Brady interloper in the Matheson-Steel writing club. He works hard on it, though, and comes up with some interesting ideas for the arrangement.
Ken brings his ears in for a listen and likes what he hears. It is decided that the single we will deliver to Worldwide Artists will be Brady’s new song, with a B-side of “Then He Kissed Me,” the latter chosen because the flip-flop pronouns just seem to whip people into a lather whenever we play it live. I’m sure Wilf will love it.
Ken sets up a recording session.
On July 11, 1974, we venture south of the river once again, but not to Olympic. This time it is to dreaded Clapham, home of the buttock-blasting black guy who still has not been arrested. And, of course, Lou’s got a girl in Clapham.
We head to 146 Clapham High Street and Majestic Studios. The place is not bad. Sort of a smaller version of Olympic. The horrible hit “Gonna Make You an Offer You Can’t Refuse” by Jimmy Helms was recorded here, but we don’t let that deter us. The engineers are sharp and friendly, and also we are no longer rookies. Casino and I know what we want and we have a much better grasp of how to get it.
For the last few nights I have been forcing my way through a dry-as-sawdust biography of Carl Jung. Finally, I can’t take it anymore and toss it into the bin. But not before I get a title for the new song. I tell the engineer it’s called “Zürich 17,” and that’s what he writes on the tape box.
We nail the basic track on Brady’s song in a couple of takes, get the riff down, and move on to “Then He Kissed Me.” We want a big, booming onslaught. Brady’s ringing, slashing southpaw guitar chords kick-start proceedings then Lou comes in with a thudding neo-Spector bass drum/snare combo. We want this thing to be live, off the floor, like we’re onstage poking the cage. Four takes later, we’ve got it. Embarrassing that it took so long but what can you do? Three to get ready then go, Brats, go.
Brady gets the backing-vocal duty for this one. It works well and, more importantly, looks good onstage so we let him give it a bash in the studio. His vocal is high-pitched, renegade, and not perfect, but when has that ever stopped us? We like it.
Next day, we tighten some things up and record the vocals. Casino has some excellent ideas for harmonies on “Zürich 17” and we layer them on. This is easily the most polished backing-vocal session we have ever done.
Lou completes a Spider-Man painting. He invites his flatmates for the unveiling. Derek and I, keen to the sense of occasion, pool our dwindling funds, walk to the high street, and buy six cans of Long Life, return home, sit on Lou’s bed, and, in the company of the artist himself, marvel (small “m,” obviously) at our drummer’s talent. It is nothing short of amazing. On the east wall of his bedroom is a life-size rendering of the web-slinger, full color and brilliant. Almost 3-D. Where did he even get the paint? Seriously, if we could spare him we’d send him off to art school.
Word comes through from 27 Dover Street all the way to Brats headquarters, 66 Fordhook Avenue, that our “single” has passed muster. The threat of my balls becoming Christmas jewelry is now a thing of the past. This, as you might imagine, is a relief. But there is even better news. Ken says RCA Records is interested in signing us. We don’t have to ask each other who is on RCA. Everybody knows who is on RCA.
Ken has set up a showcase specifically for RCA at the Speakeasy on August 5. Fender Soundhouse is block-booked for rehearsal. We are already rehearsed to death but
we go at it for hour after hour and fine-tune the details.
* * *
Speakeasy, August 5, 1974. It’s bad from the moment we show up in the afternoon. We have been loaned Stray’s PA system and roadies for the gig. For some reason they don’t seem to like us very much. Just what you want from a road crew. The stage is a postage stamp. It can’t handle all our fabulous new equipment.
Louie and Mike are fighting the good fight with Stray’s roadies, who are under the impression that they are in charge. Nobody told that to our guys, who are standing their ground. Now, we know Louie’s a psycho, but Mike is also showing a heretofore hidden vicious side. Good lad. It is entertaining but this feud cannot bode well for the gig.
Nor can the fact that nobody has seen Brady for three days.
Four hours before showtime, word comes through from the office that Brady is in Pentonville prison. Yeah, not a local nick, but Pentonville. Johnny Cash could sing about this joint. Massive walls, towers, and razor wire. Apparently, Brady attacked a row of Bentleys and Rollers in Belgravia, smashing windshields, ripping off mirrors and aerials, and scratching paint jobs. Thousands of quids’ worth of damage, and caught in the act by two coppers on the beat.
Absolute panic. We’re fucked. We want to kill him. Ken spends a solid hour on the phone in Mr. O’Leary’s office, calling the police, calling lawyers. Then Mr. O’Leary takes over. According to Ken, Mr. O’Leary went into another room, closed the door, made one phone call then hung up, came back out, and ordered coffee for the two of them. Fifteen minutes later the phone rang with news that Brady was free to go. Mr. O’Leary then dispatched a Rolls-Royce to pick him up at the prison gate.
The gig at the Speakeasy, the showcase for RCA Records, is a disaster from the first note. We are terrible and Brady is worse. We are five snails and the audience is one big salt cellar. After the first thirty seconds we’re playing entirely for that minuscule knot of fans that still think we’re the canine’s danglers. These misfits hoot and holler after every song but are immediately, completely, and justifiably drowned out by boos from London’s finest music critics.
Strange things are happening during the set, too. The sound is harsh and drenched in feedback that won’t quit, microphones keep cutting in and out, and other low-rent happenings. We were better in the old days, when we were operating with exploding rubbish gear. Mysterious. Sabotaged by Stray’s vengeful road crew? Perhaps Casino pissing on their beer crates was unwise.
Afterward, the verdict is written all over Ken’s pale mug as he approaches us. He says the representatives from RCA not only didn’t like us, they hated us. When I press Ken for what they said exactly, he replies, “They exactly said, ‘We hate them.’”
In the dressing room, sitting quietly, lost for words, on the tatty red velveteen bench, we towel off and shake our heads at the insanity of it all. We summon belated sympathy for our, until recently banged-up, guitarist. He was in Pentonville prison, guard towers, razor wire, dogs, the works, for three days and three nights. I ask him, “Brady, what was it like?”
He keeps staring at the floor, shaking his head. Finally, he says, “Sore bum and sixpence.”
Later, knocking back a couple of beers at the Speakeasy bar, Casino and I are cursing the fates, waiting for the rest of the lads so we can blow this dump, when we are approached by two guys, midthirties, Top Rank–style threads. They stick out their paws for a handshake and introduce themselves as two members of the Merseybeats, saying they are now in management and record production. They say that Keith Moon has had a word with them about us. They like what they’ve just seen onstage. They understand the problems. Do we have a manager at the moment?
“No, as a matter of fact we don’t have a manager,” Cas and I immediately say. Why not? What’s a couple more managers added to our collection. They hand us a business card and tell us to give them a call Monday. Righto Merseys, will do.
Imagine that, the Merseybeats. And after one of the worst gigs we’ve ever done. And Keith Moon. Well, every cloud and all that. Then Casino says he thinks Mr. O’Leary has been watching us the whole time.
Five minutes later we see both of the friendly, discerning Merseybeats bent backward over a table, being roughed up by Speakeasy bouncers.
* * *
On August 14 the highly influential satirical magazine Private Eye features an article on Worldwide Artists. It denounces them as “crooks.”
That’s bound to help matters.
* * *
It’s August 22, and Ken calls, saying he has good news. He has been in intense negotiations with Bell Records for the last week. He’s had four meetings with all the principals and they seem very keen indeed.
Bell Records? That is great news. We run through the known Bell Records roster: Gary Glitter, David Cassidy, Partridge Family, Showaddywaddy, Bay City Rollers. That junk is on a completely different planet to us. With a stable like that, what can Bell Records possibly see in the Hollywood Brats?
Turns out not much. They say no the next morning.
At two o’clock that afternoon Worldwide Artists stop our wages.
The Osmonds are number one in the charts. Again.
* * *
On September 1, 1974, just to boost our spirits, Wilf delivers the cheery message that if we don’t get a record deal in a week we’re out on our ears. Only he doesn’t express it in quite such a genteel manner. Ken says not to worry. Our tapes are great and the music business needs the shake-up only we can provide. The charts are long overdue for a massive overhaul, says Ken.
Armed with a diary full of appointments, a sharp suit, Ray-Ban shades, an immaculate head of tousled hair, our tape, and Gered Mankowitz photos, Ken hits the streets of London.
DJM Records
Thurs. Sept. 5 12 noon
Mitchell Hiller
Response?
NO
Warner Bros. Records
Fri. Sept. 6 10:30 a.m.
54 Greek St.
Peter Sweteham
Response?
NO
Bus Stop Records
Mon. Sept. 9 11:30 a.m.
16 Clifford St.
Gary Jones
Response?
NO
Decca Records
Tues. Sept. 10 10:30 a.m.
9 Albert Embankment
Mr. Tauber
Response?
NO
Island Records
Tues. Sept. 10 5 p.m.
22 St. Peter’s Square
Richard Withas
Response?
NO
Gull Records
Wed. Sept. 11 3 p.m.
56 South Molton St.
David Howells
Response?
NO
A&M Records
Wed. Sept. 11 4 p.m.
136 New King’s Rd.
Mike Noble
Response?
NO
Magnet Records
Thurs. Sept. 12 12 noon
Peter Walton
Response?
NO
RAK Records
Thurs. Sept. 12 3 p.m.
Mickie Most
Response?
“Ken, you’re not serious?”
GTO Records
Thurs. Sept. 12 5 p.m.
J. Myers
Response?
NO
Bearsville Records
Fri. Sept. 13 10 a.m.
Ian Kimmet
Response?
NO
CBS Records
Fri. Sept. 13 1 p.m.
17 Soho Square
Response?
NO
Polydor Records
Fri. Sept. 13 3 p.m.
Clive Selwood
Respon
se?
NO
Evolution Records
Mon. Sept. 16 10 a.m.
Martin Saville
Response?
NO
Virgin Records
Mon. Sept. 16 12 noon
Martin Cole
Response?
NO
EMI Records
Mon. Sept. 16 3 p.m.
Rod McSween
Response?
NO
Carlin Music
Mon. Sept. 16 5 p.m.
Savile Row
Freddie Bienstock
Response?
“What the hell is this crap?”
WEA Records
Tues. Sept. 17 11 a.m.
Dave Dee
Response?
NO
EMI Records
(again)
Tues. Sept. 17 3 p.m.
Nick Mobbs
Response?
NO
Elektra Records
Tues. Sept. 17 5 p.m.
Nick Phillips
Response?
NO
Alert the judge. The jury has reached a unanimous verdict:
NO!
While Ken is out pounding on bricked-up doors and trying to convince cocked-up ears, the three of us, sometimes four, sometimes five, are kicking around 66 Fordhook Avenue like we’re in prison: broke, complaining, waiting, watching TV. Phoning Ken fifty times a day for news. Doing anything but making music.
Films on the Beeb and ITV distract us, save us from punching each other into a raw bloody pulp. We watch The Alamo with John Wayne and Laurence (Expresso Bongo) Harvey, Texas Across the River with Dean Martin and Joey Bishop, A Day at the Races with the Marx Brothers, Sex and the Single Girl featuring Tony Curtis and everybody knows Natalie not only Wood, but usually did.
Our two favorites, though, are King Kong vs. Godzilla, starring King Kong and Godzilla (in his prime), and Loving You with Elvis Presley. All of us come to the immediate conclusion that we have ignored Elvis to our embarrassing detriment. He is completely brilliant in Loving You and warrants a full re-evaluation on our part.
This isn’t fat Vegas Elvis in a white polyester jumpsuit. This isn’t even “comeback” Elvis in black leather in ’68, the concert that gave Casino that dangerous word. This is the real-deal Presley. He’s playing a Gibson J-200, his hair is stunning, the moves are perfect, and the voice is so 1957 it’s almost got big fins and a V8. We all agree we need more Elvis records around this joint. We’ll get Mike on it tomorrow.