by Dillon Khan
‘What about me?’ said Tola, standing on the outside of the group.
PJ stood in silence for a moment, thinking.
‘You’re the cheerleader,’ he said, unable to think of anything better.
‘Gee, thanks,’ she said with a fake smile.
Having eaten and briefly pausing for James III to have his ‘shit, shave and shower’, we all went on the hunt together. We started at Her hotel, from where the trail went hot and cold as we passed through boutique stores and various tourist sites. Conscious that he was in Amsterdam to work, PJ would stop at each location and film a link to camera, highlighting the great city then throwing to a music video. This would all be part of the show PJ had conceived – a ‘behind the scenes’ at the awards. The city had been covered in guerrilla marketing that had The Beat’s infinity logo and today’s date plastered everywhere. Finally we got a phone call: the final rehearsal for Her would be after lunch at the venue, Passenger Terminal Amsterdam.
Inside, it was a huge operation behind the scenes, with lots of staff, makeshift offices, stage rigging, cameras, cables and instruments all piled into a small space. The mood felt like The Beat staff summer party all over again, but on a grander scale as people attended from all the four corners. Although not everyone had been lucky enough to make it over to Amsterdam. Staff from different departments across the company had been flown in to work as talent escorts to all the celebrities attending. These positions had been decided by lottery, so even if you only worked in the tape library, it might just be you. One day you’re sending out Madonna’s music videos, the next you’re leading Her around the awards venue screaming, ‘Out of the way please, Madonna coming through!’ Kate, the T.A.D. intern, had been the lucky lottery winner to escort Her, so she was acting as our woman on the inside.
By now it was lunchtime so we went to Crew Catering and grabbed some supplies. Just as I’d got some food, my phone rang. It was Kate telling me our target had arrived and was going straight to a closed rehearsal. Artists didn’t like to give interviews during rehearsals as they were usually without make-up and we weren’t sure She would like to either, but it was a gamble PJ was happy to take. We ran out, to the annoyance of James III who had carefully piled food on to two plates. He followed behind with a chicken wing in his mouth. We snuck in undetected with PJ at the helm.
‘OK, you two take exit A at the left of stage and we’ll take exit B at the right of stage,’ he said, pointing at me to stick with him. ‘Whichever side She comes off, try and hold Her there and call for back-up,’ said PJ, moving and pointing like a general directing his troops.
As we sat in the empty seats, we realized She was performing just for us and the handful of cameramen who were rehearsing for the live show. PJ’s wet dream had come true as She performed in front of us in living colour. One song and a heap of pyrotechnics later, the music and lights went off. We waited by our phones thinking that James III and Tola had cornered Her at Exit A as we’d had no movement at ours. My phone finally rang.
‘Is that them? Where is She?’ asked an enthusiastic PJ.
‘Yes … aha … right … I see … OK … get me the extra large pizza and a Pepsi,’ I said jokingly.
PJ wasn’t in the mood for jokes.
‘Sorry! That was Kate, Her escort. She left through the secret door in the middle of the stage. It’s part of the routine!’
‘Oh, I’ll get Her. She’s not getting away from me that easy,’ he said defiantly.
We got back to Crew Catering to find our plates had been cleared away. Just as we were about to queue up again, I got a call from another informant telling me She had been seen heading to Artists’ Catering on the other side of the building. Once again, with cameras in hand, we fled the scene, this time with a hot cross bun in James III’s mouth. PJ lead the way. The wrong way.
Eventually we got back on the right track and managed to blag our way past the heavy security into Artists’ Catering. We weren’t meant to be in there but PJ wanted to film its opulence for a link to camera. The specially constructed area looked like the inside of a three-starred Michelin restaurant. A variety of food was being served, from roast beef and posh fish finger sandwiches to sushi and low fat snacks. There were even flamingos made entirely of fruit perched in every corner like statues, alongside chocolate fountains.
PJ went looking for Her as the rest of us stood waiting. James III’s stomach began to rumble loudly at the sight of the food laid out. He sat down on a sofa nearby looking tired and hungry. But any thought of grabbing something to eat disappeared as the head of T.A.D., ‘the Duke’, walked in.
‘What are you boys doing in here?’ he asked like a headmaster.
‘We’re just waiting for PJ,’ Stuey replied without flinching.
I panicked inwardly. The Duke was known for dishing out ‘hairdryer’ moments.
‘What for? Even PJ shouldn’t be in here,’ he said firmly.
I clenched my butt cheeks a little tighter as his voice reverberated in my ears.
‘Oh, we know, but he’s saying hi to some of his, you know, famous friends. Bloody annoying seeing as we have so many things to film,’ Stuey said.
The Duke looked suspiciously at our cameras. ‘Right. Well make sure you’re not filming in here. I don’t want to have anyone complaining.’
‘Of course. You can trust us,’ said Stuey, straight-faced.
PJ eventually returned, looking disappointed at not having found Her but nevertheless used the opportunity to try to get the Duke to organize a one-on-one interview.
‘She’s already given us a five-minute interview for all the regions to use. So don’t try looking for another one. I don’t want to get any complaints from Her management cos they’ll eat my balls for breakfast.’ But I could see that the more the Duke dissuaded us, the more it egged PJ on.
‘Right, time we rolled out. People to see, filming to do,’ said Stuey, leading the way out quickly.
We kept following the trail She had left, going to the artists’ dressing rooms, the huge press and media rooms and everywhere else we received information from, but we didn’t catch a break. As it got closer to show time the sense of anticipation grew as backstage filled with dancers and extras. But what really fuelled things were the rumours of celebrity strops, walkouts and fights.
By five p.m. we gave up and went back to our hotel to change and grab a bite to eat. PJ’s spirit picked up after a plate of sushi and a glass of wine, and he was soon plotting again. I knew James III was back to his happy best, not just because he’d finally refuelled, but because he was whistling his Christmas carols again as we walked back to our chauffeured people carrier.
As we drove back to the venue, the illuminated infinity logo shooting into the sky on the blackened horizon was a beacon, alerting the people of Amsterdam that their city had been taken over. It was so bright I was sure the International Space Station would be picking up on it too. As I looked at the Batman-like beam, I turned to Stuey. ‘Why are the awards in Amsterdam of all places?
‘True say, there are a lot of factors, but I suppose whichever city puts in the highest bid helps,’ he said.
‘Oh, so they pay for the awards to be here?’ I said, surprised.
‘Putting on awards ain’t cheap, homeboy. Consider the city as a sponsor, like some TV shows have. The money they pay gets recouped from all the PR the city receives across the world, not to mention the boost to the local economy.’
‘That’s some serious bragging rights,’ said Tola.
Before I could ask about facts and figures we pulled up to the security gates. A huge crowd of kids had gathered in the freezing cold and welcomed us with deafening screams. James III quickly pressed his face flat to the window like he was squashed against it. Kids began to take pictures of him, not sure which celebrity it was inside the car.
Once inside, we waited for Her on the red carpet, interviewing famous guests in the meantim
e. Every major and minor news agency from across the globe had hustled for a spot, ready to quiz the celebrities on everything from scandalous gossip to who designed their outfit. Photographers screamed the stars’ names as an orgasm of flashes went off and they posed for pictures.
Unsuccessful, we moved our search for Her into the auditorium, which was packed to the rafters. Fans were sending round a Mexican wave to spread the energy before kick-off and we stood by the side of the stage, taking in the atmosphere that was building up. The VIP section of the audience housed strictly A-listers, including musicians, politicians, sportsmen, actors and a few members of organized crime who’d ‘found’ their way in.
‘Didn’t I tell you we’d have fun?’ said PJ as we stood away from the others, glancing out on to the audience.
‘Nothing’s happened yet,’ I said, playing it cool but giddy inside as Fatboy Slim’s ‘Right Here, Right Now’ played prophetically on the speakers.
‘Mmm, can you smell it?’ he asked with his eyes shut. He tilted his head back and inhaled. ‘Can you smell the aura? All these artists in one place. Tonight is my Christmas, Passover, Eid, Chinese New Year and Diwali all rolled into one.’
I remembered a similar speech from him at the bar at the Delano in Miami.
‘They can smell it,’ he said, pointing to the audience. ‘All those kids are believers.’
I looked at all the keen faces of the kids who had waited several hours out in the cold just so they could get to the front of the stage. Were they smelling it? I wondered.
‘Let’s go, I just got word She’s arrived,’ said Stuey, coming and putting his arm round us both.
Backstage was now mayhem. Fully dressed and made-up dancers riddled the corridors along with their props as The Beat escorts rushed back and forth from the red carpet to the dressing rooms with their VIPs. Both new and old members of the musical family of the world had congregated together and were getting ready for one big party.
We went to Her dressing-room door to find a big burly bouncer standing guard, not allowing anyone inside. Not even PJ’s charms worked on this guy; he wouldn’t budge literally or metaphorically. PJ would have stood there the whole night if it weren’t for the interview we had to do with The Spice Girls and Destiny’s Child before the show started.
Once the show got under way it was a blur. One minute we were flashing our Access-All-Areas passes to go backstage and film, the next we were rushing front of house to catch a performance or a watch a guest presenter giving out an award. There was so much excitement it was hard not to get caught up in it all. Our base camp was outside Her dressing room and was where we set off from and came back to after smaller missions. When we weren’t interviewing people, we’d be catching up with The Beat escorts to hear all the gossip: who’d thrown a tantrum, who didn’t like who and bizarre goings-on in the dressing rooms.
*NSYNC were the next interview for us and Tola was left to stand guard with a camera outside Her door just in case She came out pre-show and we could scoop an exclusive. Tola stood next to the emotionless bouncer and tried to make polite conversation, hoping it might get us in, but he was well briefed in espionage.
PJ hadn’t given up hope. He was still a believer. After our interview finished we stood by the stairs leading to the trapdoor on stage, patiently waiting as thunderous applause rang around the venue as She finished Her performance. Moments later we realized we’d been outmanoeuvred again and headed back to base camp to see the big bouncer gone. PJ rushed over and popped his head round the door to find an empty dressing room.
‘Where is She?’ he asked desperately.
‘They’ve gone,’ said Tola, shrugging her shoulders.
‘Gone? Already?’ I asked.
‘I heard She was on a flight back to America tonight,’ said Tola.
‘What? Why didn’t you call us?’ said PJ.
‘I tried but there was no reception. I explained the situation and tried to hold them as long as I could, but then they left.’
‘Did you get anything, a manager’s name, number, any sort of a lead?’ he asked.
‘I got a vox-pop,’ she said.
‘A vox-pop? A bloody vox-pop?’ said PJ, astonished.
‘Well, She was being rushed off, it was lucky that She had time to do even that. I had to beg Her management to let Her do it. They were being really protective,’ said Tola exasperated.
We sat in Her empty room checking our kit as PJ sulked, watching Foo Fighters close the show on Her TV. Eventually he trudged off alone, talking on his phone. Our work for the night had just begun, but the main event, which had taken nine months to plan and pull off, had been a huge success. The Beat had once again connected all the global tribes finding a true common ground – the love of music. For us it was part two of our evening: the afterparty.
43
I Want Her
We sat in our people carrier out back, preparing to go and film at the afterparty at the ballroom in Hotel Okura. Everyone from the awards was heading there, but not everyone was going to get in. All of a sudden the door slid open and in jumped PJ pulling behind him a massive sports bag with one hand while the other clutched on to a Beat Award.
‘Drive! Drive!’ he said as he slammed the door shut like he was Michael Caine in The Italian Job.
‘What the hell is that?’ asked Tola.
‘That, my friends, is a swag bag,’ said PJ, now all smiles as the taxi drove away.
‘Which is?’ I asked.
‘It’s the bag they give to the VIPs as a thank you,’ explained Stuey. ‘It’s full of goodies.’
James III was peering over PJ’s shoulder for a better look. ‘Like what?’
‘Well, let’s have a look, shall we?’ he said, unzipping the bag.
Out came everything Santa Claus had set aside for someone rich: a golden Motorola handset, a Viktor & Rolf diamond bracelet, Jo Malone candles, a magnum of Moët, dinner for two at Nobu (London and New York), a Gucci bag, DVDs, a PlayStation 2 with games, a weekend away at the luxury Half Moon resort in Jamaica, a track day at Silverstone. It was endless and PJ kept going until the bag was emptied out on the seat next to him.
‘How did you manage to get that then?’ asked Stuey.
‘This smile gets me a long way. Jay, you can verify this,’ said PJ, looking at me.
‘So you stole it?’ said Stuey, laughing.
‘Stole? Such a dirty word. No, no.’ PJ shook his head.
‘And The Beat award?’ Tola asked.
‘That? Yes, I stole that,’ he said unashamedly.
‘Whose is it?’ asked James III, still peering over from the back seat.
PJ turned it upside down and read the label. ‘Dr Dre.’
Everyone laughed.
From the co-pilot’s seat, Stuey blasted his favourite album of all time, Born In The USA, as the driver zipped through the streets of Amsterdam and deposited us on the red carpet outside the hotel. The party promoter was a friend of PJ’s and had given us exclusive access to film inside. He led us to a cellar-cum-storage cupboard for alcohol where we could stash our kit.
As the others filmed around the party, PJ and I went to the velvet-roped VIP section to interview any celebs we could find who were not totally off their faces. PJ stood marvelling at his surroundings and inhaling the aura from the people in the room like it was a 1787 bottle of Château Lafite. People were already making power moves, forging new alliances that were both business and pleasure. The promoter had spared no expense in putting on a food and drink extravaganza for the guests. It was a party fit for King Louis XIV, the extravagant French monarch. The scene was set for an all-night lock-in. And I was there.
As we filmed in the far corner of the ballroom, the DJ went digging in his crates for everything from Black Legend ‘You See the Trouble with Me’ to Wu-Tang Clan’s ‘Gravel Pit’. Everyone was letting their hair down, some more than others, as celebrities jumped
on to the small stage in front of the DJ booth and a guy began rapping like a drunken uncle at a birthday party.
‘Stop filming, stop filming!’ yelled PJ into his mic, which fed to my headphones.
‘Why?’ I said, wincing with earache.
‘She’s not on a plane to America, She’s on the bloody stage over there!’ he shouted, nudging past an out-of-costume Sacha Baron Cohen.
I craned my head to see if I could spot Her. Everyone was crowded round the tiny stage that held the stars, trying to get on. By the time we got there Security was forcing the crowd back, including us with our camera. We were being pushed further and further away with the tide. I had to take action: no one else would have this footage apart from our show, and it was the golden ticket all news outlets would want access to. I left PJ behind and pushed through the crowd, holding the camera above people’s heads. I tried to film Her and the others dancing as people stepped on my feet, kicked my shins and elbowed me.
As I moved forward, two super-hot blondes sandwiched me and began dancing with me. The busty one behind me was squeezing my butt, while the big booty one at the front was ‘backing that thang up’ like Juvenile. It was the most fun I’d ever had filming. It was like being fed grapes and getting a massage from Gisele while you worked. The real rub though came moments later when one of the blondes began massaging my crotch. When I looked at her with shock she just smiled and carried on.
I eventually pulled myself away and fought through the crowd as She came off the stage because of the mayhem She was causing. PJ and I chased the mob all the way to the front door of the hotel and saw Her whisked away from the party. PJ looked like he wanted to throw The Beat mic on the floor and scream.
I dropped him off with the others on the Universal Records table to get drunk as I went to put the cameras away for the night. The door to the room that had our equipment in was held open by a fire extinguisher, allowing extra light into the dark room. I crouched down and started putting things away when I heard the sound of heels behind me. I got up and looked round to see Busty and Booty drunkenly walking towards me, knocking over empty champagne bottles, giggling and whispering.
