by Dillon Khan
27
Here I Come (Broader Than Broadway)
The bank holiday weekend at the end of August meant one thing in London: Notting Hill Carnival. In one square mile or so, musical styles changed from street to street, flitting between hip hop, R&B, reggae, dancehall, bashment, soca, garage, drum and bass and many more. Half of the Production department were here filming, and mainly partying, while the rest were at the festivals in Edinburgh, filming and mainly laughing.
Having covered the world of dance music a few weeks earlier in Ibiza, this time we were putting our finger on the pulse of the UK’s ‘urban’ music scene – past, present and future. Especially as it was being played out locally on The Beat’s doorstep. I’d have loved a long weekend off to see Sophia and my family and friends, but Max put a stop to that by taking on extra work to force his promotion. I didn’t put up a huge fight as it was good for me to impress the execs too. Plus I wanted to cash in my chips for a bigger prize – time off to go to New York with Sophia for my birthday at the start of October.
I hadn’t asked Max yet but this was as perfect a time as any, as he was in a good mood thanks to the Carnival’s atmosphere. Sam was meant to film with us but had got Sonya to stand in at the last minute instead, claiming she was sick. I was worried she was still upset about what had happened in Ibiza but I wasn’t sure if I should be the one to bring it up.
Sonya walked ahead with PJ through a throng of people waving colourful flags and blowing whistles. Jamaica had the biggest showing, but Trinidad, Barbados, St Lucia and Antigua weren’t too far behind.
‘So do you think I can go?’ I asked loudly, to ensure I was heard.
‘I’m not sure. Isn’t that at the end of your internship?’ he replied.
‘Yeah, but …’
‘Well, I might need you for a handover to your replacement,’ he said.
The suggestion made my heart sink. I’d been hoping he’d give me some good news about getting the permanent position.
‘It’s just that I haven’t had any time off in the last five months and … it’s my birthday,’ I said feebly, feeling about eight years old.
‘You haven’t?’ he asked. He thought about it. ‘Are you sure?’ He was clearly bluffing.
‘Yes, I’m sure,’ I said.
‘Hmmm. Well, I suppose you should –’
‘Thanks, Max,’ I said, cutting him off before any ‘but’.
‘… otherwise HR will give me shit. I can’t ask for an increased role as a manager if it looks like I can’t manage,’ he said philosophically.
‘So will you sign it off next week?’ I asked enthusiastically.
He looked slightly offended. ‘Isn’t my word good enough?’
No, I thought. I wanted it in writing in case he cancelled it the day before because ‘Something had come up’. I quickly thought on my feet. ‘Course it is. I just thought maybe HR would want it?’
The plan for today was to shoot a package for next week’s show and finish by filming at The Beat’s carnival party. We started by following the trucks that pulled the floats on the official carnival route down Ladbroke Grove. Some consisted of just huge speakers blaring out music while others had steel bands playing calypso and soca as performers of all ages danced in bright, extravagant costumes.
We headed to the inner streets of the carnival to judge who had the best sound stage. The annual battle was between the radio stations, pirates and commercial alike. Size didn’t matter. A small station like Irie FM had as good a chance as anyone to bring down a giant like Radio 1. It was all about how well the DJ and MC controlled the crowd. The winner would be judged on who could make the kids shack out, bounce and two-step to the year’s anthems.
At the centre of the carnival there was a constant buzz, with an equally hyped-up crowd – musical aficionados of the highest calibre – who knew the words to every song and reacted to every ‘puuuuuuullll upppppp’. Filming in public with PJ was a headache at the best of times, but today it was much worse. As soon as he began his link, his name would be called out by some giddy girl or excited fan. He loved the attention and instantly stopped to acknowledge it. Kids were coming up to him begging to be on camera, asking for autographs and taking pictures.
‘This is a bloody nightmare,’ said Max, realizing we were way behind schedule.
‘Maybe we should have used Isabel,’ I said. She’d been texting me during the day, and was looking forward to filming at the party later and discussing her outfit.
He twitched as I suggested it. ‘Why do you care so much?’ he snapped back.
‘I don’t. I’m just saying she’s fairly unknown and might not get this level of attention.’
He paused as my words ran through his head. ‘That’s not what I’ve heard.’
‘What do you mean?’ I said.
‘Don’t think I don’t notice. I know what’s going on.’
‘Notice what?’ I asked, wondering what he thought he knew.
He ignored my question. ‘Well, she’s a newbie like you, she wouldn’t be able to deliver in this kind of crowd.’
I got defensive at the implied put-down of my skills. ‘And PJ’s doing that much better? We haven’t filmed in the last fifteen minutes.’ As soon as it left my mouth I realized I shouldn’t have said it. It got his back up, majorly.
‘Are you saying you know better than me?’ he snapped again.
‘No, of course not. I was –’
‘Well, why don’t you do something useful instead of being a know-it-all?’
‘I didn’t mean anything by it,’ I said, trying to defuse his anger but sounding like a little mouse. Had I just kissed NYC goodbye?
Eventually, tired and succumbing to the intoxicating smell of food, we huddled in a quiet corner away from the crowds to eat. We all tucked into a huge plate each of jerk chicken and curried goat with rice and peas, with lashings of Encona sauce, from a stall we’d just filmed at. My tastebuds tingled with every delicious spoonful I wolfed down. We were standing near a small sound system banging out Shyne’s new tune. As Barrington Levy dropped his famous ad-libs of ‘Shiddddlydidddlyddiddlywiddddlydidddlywhoa-seen’, big aerosol cans of hairspray were pressed and lighters set fire to the gases, sending out huge flames above the crowds that excited the boys but horrified the girls with large weaves.
‘Wouldn’t it be great if I could actually say what we’re all thinking?’ said PJ, referring to the footage we’d taken earlier of a slightly podgy twelve-year-old girl who’d sung ‘Viva Forever’ even better than the Spice Girls, showcasing her talent to camera.
‘No, it wouldn’t! You can’t,’ said Sonya in shock.
‘That girl needs honest guidance from someone who knows what they’re talking about. Fat singers on the whole don’t make it big,’ he said, laughing as he tucked into his chicken. ‘These other wannabe performers need to hear the truth too.’
Max chimed in. ‘I agree. So they don’t waste their time.’
‘Let’s bloody do it … let’s film it,’ said PJ, laughing. ‘I’m telling you, it’s a ratings winner!’ He licked his fingers in delight.
‘Not sure people would stand for someone ridiculing a person for trying,’ said Sonya.
‘Don’t underestimate the human gene for mean,’ Max cut in, sipping on his bottle of Ting.
‘There’s lots of talented people out there but the fact is they don’t know how to sell themselves or the timing isn’t right for the marketplace,’ added PJ as they began picking up each other’s thought processes with ease, like they’d had this conversation before.
‘But real talent will always make it,’ said Sonya defiantly.
‘Oh yeah?’ said PJ. ‘I can show you lots of backing vocalists who are better than the main act they support but can’t be marketed or just don’t have that star-quality X-factor.’
‘But lots of artists were told they wouldn’t make it and did,’ sh
e responded.
‘True. Perhaps it was timing, luck, persistence …’
‘Whatever you do, you just need to ensure you have an ROI in what you’re doing,’ said Max.
‘ROI?’ I asked, perplexed.
‘Return on investment. You don’t plant apple trees in the desert. In anything you do, you’re investing your time and talent. So don’t waste it, maximize it. Some aspiring artists realized they weren’t going to be the big star but diversified their talents into other areas in the music business.’
‘Or did they give up? You have to believe that cream rises to the top,’ said Sonya, not conceding the point.
As the conversation continued, we found we had an audience around us listening. How long they’d been there was hard to know as we’d been so engrossed in ourselves.
‘So how do I get a video on to The Beat then?’ asked a kid from the crowd.
PJ laughed. ‘I take cash,’ he quipped.
‘Before we go there, do you have a good song?’ asked Max, also laughing.
‘What do you mean by good song? Who makes a bad song?’ asked another kid.
I nudged Sonya and signalled we should film the conversation. It was an authentic Q&A session that I thought could be useful. As the tag team of PJ and Max got ready to share their pearls of wisdom, Max agreed my plan with a nod.
‘You’d be surprised. The successful tracks in UK garage, street music, or any genre for that matter, are the ones that make mainstream radio. It’s about vocals, catchy choruses and melodies, not just what bumps on the pirates and in the club,’ PJ said.
‘But UK garage isn’t for Capital Radio, it’s for the man dem. We’re keeping it real,’ shouted another voice from the crowd.
Looking in the direction of where the heckle came from, Max countered, ‘Yeah, real broke.’ Chortles of laughter went round as he continued, ‘The man dem aren’t the ones who are going to buy it. This is a business. It’s the wider public that need to like it, then buy it. So spitting sixteen bars of fast nonsense might impress your mates on road, but Bonnie in Scotland or Josie in Wales won’t have a clue.’
‘Which track do you think those two kids know the words to – Biggie’s “Warning” or “Mo Money Mo Problems”?’ asked PJ.
The crowd laughed.
‘Biggie catered for the street, the clubs and the charts,’ said Max.
Where we were standing increasingly resembled Speakers’ Corner in Hyde Park as Max and PJ took turns to preach and teach. Even the two police officers standing by were listening intently. It felt like a painting-by-numbers session, but PJ was enjoying the spotlight far too much to stop and the crowd didn’t want him to either.
‘The good thing is that it doesn’t cost money to write a good song. That’s not the be-all and end-all but it puts you in pole position on the grid,’ said PJ.
‘So what you saying we should do?’ said a mean-looking kid with googly eyes standing next to him.
‘Are you a singer or rapper?’ asked PJ.
‘I’m a rapper, like my whole crew from East London,’ he said, pointing to an assortment of boys in Starter caps, Nike hoodies and Evisu jeans behind him.
‘Have a well-constructed album with both street and radio-friendly singles. You don’t need expensive studio time when you can make it in your bedroom,’ said PJ.
‘Then what?’
‘Get a following started through pirate radio, gigging and mix-tapes,’ said Max. ‘If you stand out, regional radio will pick up on your heat then the nationals will sit up and take notice. At the same time, learn how the industry works and ensure you don’t get shafted. Get a good manager, preferably someone who’s not trying to make it themselves.’
‘What about videos?’ the rapper said, as though his mind was a sponge for information.
Max laughed. ‘OK, well, when the time is right make your music video engaging, creative and original so people want to see it again and again. It doesn’t have to be a big-money thing. It has to be a smart thing. Pharcyde’s “Drop” video is a classic to this day even though it didn’t have a huge budget,’ said Max.
‘So try and stay away from filming it on an estate or, if you’re a band, in a darkened warehouse – been done to death,’ said PJ, pretending to yawn.
‘Lots of other things need to come into play, like timing and luck,’ Max added, trying to bring everyone back to reality. ‘But make sure you’re prepared when your moment arrives.’
‘That’s us, you get me, blud,’ said one of the kids.
‘No bluds. Please, no bluds,’ said Max immediately. ‘You need to answer articulately for the nice man from the Guardian. Start speaking street slang for your radio interview at Capital FM and you’ll be blowing your chances.’
PJ nodded. ‘Be your charismatic self and have your answers prepared. Don’t sit there umming and ahhing.’ He pointed to one of the kids. ‘What’s your favourite colour?’
The startled kid look petrified and blurted out, ‘Red.’
PJ frowned. Immediately the rapper kid beside him said, ‘My favourite colour is red because it’s the same as my favourite football team!’
PJ applauded. ‘Great back reference, you made it interesting.’
‘So when I get all that done, then will you play my video on Total BEATS?’ the kid asked, with an enigmatic smile that suddenly made him look less threatening.
‘Of course, I’ll play it,’ PJ said without flinching. ‘But it better be good. Deal?’ He shook hands with the kid.
‘You saw this, yeah. You mans saw this!’ shouted the rapper, looking round at his witnesses. ‘He’s gonna play my video on The Beat!’
‘Brapp, brapp,’ came more cries from the hyped-up crowd as a police helicopter soared above and the crowd eventually started to disperse.
With filming done, the four of us walked towards Royal Oak station where our Uncle Lee was waiting. First we were off to Nando’s for a quick bite. After that we’d be on our way to The Beat carnival party at The Hippodrome in central London where we’d meet up with the rest of the Production department to film and party. My phone beeped with a text message as Max and I walked together.
‘Isabel says she hasn’t heard from you and wants to know what time you want her tonight,’ I told Max, putting my phone back in my pocket.
He didn’t respond. I was about to ask him again when he stopped me in my tracks. ‘I don’t think I’m going to need her.’
What? I thought. You’ve decided this just a few hours away from the party?
‘Who’s going to do the vox-pops?’
‘I’m sure we’ll find someone else,’ he said calmly.
I felt defensive for her. ‘But what’s wrong with Isabel?’
‘I don’t need a reason, Jay,’ he replied, still unsettlingly calm. ‘Am I the boss or are you? If I were you, I’d spend less time worrying about Isabel’s job and more time concentrating on your own.’
I stayed quiet as we took the long walk back through the crowd, my phone beeping with messages that I dared not answer in front of ‘the boss’. Suddenly, not going to New York was the least of my worries.
28
You Got Me
Max was in a rush as we left the studio for an important meeting in town and said he wouldn’t be back. He didn’t even bother coming upstairs to go through the big box of clothes that had arrived from Diesel for PJ, as was customary. He left me to cover, which meant I got first dibs on a leather jacket.
I’d kept a low profile with Max in recent weeks since Carnival. Isabel was constantly asking me to pass on her messages to him, but I just didn’t want to get involved. Once I’d said that, our text tennis stopped. But what did she want me to do? I was hanging by a thread myself.
‘What’s the drama in the Eighties meeting room about?’ I asked James III, seeing all the suits congregated in there.
I had interrupted him reading Rolling S
tone and whistling ‘Here Comes Santa Claus’, with his feet up on his desk. ‘Senior management are in there with some distressed mother,’ he said.
‘Why?’
‘Her daughter tried to commit suicide after some kids in her class called her ugly.’
I raised my eyebrows. ‘Wow, bit over the top, isn’t it?’
‘Well, she reckons they kept singing “U.G.L.Y.” by Daphne and Celeste at her daughter and they did it so much that she cut her wrists in the school toilets with a scalpel. It made the news and all the talk-show hosts and tabloids are up in arms.’
‘So, what’s that got to do with us?’ I could see how the mother would be distressed, but still wasn’t making any links.
‘Apparently it’s on high rotation on the playlist and been playing over and over on the request show,’ he explained.
‘Er, well, that’s unfortunate, but it’s not our fault.’
‘Well, she and her high-priced lawyer husband seem to think differently about The Beat’s influence,’ he said, licking his finger and flicking to the next page. ‘Apparently the head of PR thought it would be good crisis management if the suits obliged them with a meeting and at least paid them lip service.’
James III switched to MOJO magazine, saying, ‘It’s this week’s gripe. Next week it’ll be an MP saying that rap videos are to blame for youth crime and after that some religious group will be claiming that semi-naked dance videos lead to under-age sex. The Beat is the cause of all our social ills.’ Then he started humming the words to ‘U.G.L.Y.’ absent-mindedly.
The girls were all out on shoots (or in Sam’s case at her grandmother’s funeral in Scotland) so me and James III had the run of the place. I was standing at my desk organizing tapes as we listened to The Dark Side of the Moon when I felt someone watching me. I looked up. From across the department the head of Production, the Minister, was looking at me. He stood by the printer waiting for something, so I did what I did best when I wanted to make an impression: I panicked. My face went red and I half-heartedly stuck my hand up to acknowledge him, only for it to come across like I was hailing Adolf Hitler.
