They did the song again.
All Eric said was: ‘Again, please.’
After the second time he came out again. Walli feared he would say it was not good enough after all. ‘Let’s do it again,’ he said. ‘This time we’ll record the backing first time around, and the vocals after.’
Dave said: ‘Why?’
‘Because you play better when you don’t have to sing, and you sing better when you don’t have to play.’
They recorded the instruments, then they sang the song while the recording was played to them through headphones. Afterwards, Eric came out of the booth to listen with them. They were joined by a well-dressed young man with a Beatle haircut: Paulo Conti, Walli presumed. Why was he here?
They listened to the combined track, Eric sitting on an amp and smoking.
When it ended, Paulo said in a London accent: ‘I like it. Nice song.’
He seemed confident and authoritative, though he was only about twenty. Walli wondered what right he had to an opinion.
Eric dragged on his cigarette. ‘Now, we might have something here,’ he said. ‘But there’s a problem. The piano part is wrong. No offence, Lenny, but the Jerry Lee Lewis style is a bit heavy-handed. Paulo is here to show you what I mean. Let’s record it again with Paulo on the piano.’
Walli looked at Lenny. He was angry, Walli could tell; but he was keeping it under control. He remained sitting on the piano stool and said: ‘Let’s get something straight, Eric. This is my group. You can’t shove me out and bring Paulo in.’
‘I wouldn’t worry too much about that if I were you, Lenny,’ said Eric. ‘Paulo plays with the Royal National Symphony Orchestra and he’s released three albums of Beethoven sonatas. He doesn’t want to join a pop group. I wish he did – I know half a dozen outfits that would take him on quicker than you can say hit parade.’
Lenny looked foolish and said aggressively: ‘All right, so long as we understand each other.’
They played the song again, and Walli could see immediately what Eric meant. Paulo played light trills with his right hand and simple chords with his left, and it suited the song much better.
They recorded it again with Lenny. He tried to play like Paulo, and made a decent job of it, but he did not really have the touch.
They recorded the backing twice more, once with Paulo and once with Lenny; then they recorded the vocal part three times. Finally Eric was satisfied. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘we need a B side. What have you got that’s similar?’
‘Wait a minute,’ Dave said. ‘Does that mean that we’ve passed the audition?’
‘Of course you have,’ said Eric. ‘Do you think I go to this much trouble with groups I’m about to turn down?’
‘So . . . “Love Is It” by Plum Nellie will be released as a record?’
‘I bloody well hope so. If my boss turns it down I’ll quit.’
Walli was surprised to learn that Eric had a boss. Until now he had given the impression that he
was
the boss. It was a trivial deception, but Walli marked it.
Dave said: ‘Do you think it will be a hit?’
‘I don’t make predictions – I’ve been in this business too long. But if I thought it was going to be a miss, I wouldn’t be here talking to you, I’d be down the pub.’
Dave looked around at the group, grinning. ‘We passed the audition,’ he said.
‘You did,’ Eric said impatiently. ‘Now, what have you got for the B side?’
* * *
‘Are you ready for some good news?’ said Eric Chapman over the phone to Dave Williams a month later. ‘You’re going to Birmingham.’
At first Dave did not know what he meant. ‘Why?’ he said. Birmingham was an industrial city 120 miles north of London. ‘What’s in Birmingham?’
‘The television studio where they make
It’s Fab!
, you idiot.’
‘Oh!’ Dave suddenly felt breathless with excitement. Eric was talking about a popular show that featured pop groups miming to their records. ‘Are we on it?’
‘Of course you are! “Love Is It” will be their Hot Tip for the week.’
The record had been out five days. It had been played on the BBC Light Programme once, and several times on Radio Luxembourg. To Dave’s surprise, Eric did not know how many copies had actually been bought: the record business was not that good at tracking sales.
Eric had released the version with Paulo on the piano. Lenny had pretended not to notice.
Eric treated Dave as the leader of the group, despite what Lenny had told him. Now he said: ‘Have you got decent outfits to wear?’
‘We normally wear red shirts and black jeans.’
‘It’s black-and-white television, so that’ll probably look fine. Make sure you all wash your hair.’
‘When are we going?’
‘Day after tomorrow.’
‘I’ll have to get off school,’ Dave said worriedly. ‘There might be trouble about that.’
‘You may have to
leave
school, Dave.’
Dave gulped. He wondered if that was true.
Eric finished: ‘Meet me at Euston Station at ten in the morning. I’ll have your tickets.’
Dave hung up the phone and stared at it. He was going to be on
It’s Fab!.
It was beginning to look as if he might actually make a living by singing and playing the guitar. As that prospect came to seem more real, his dread of the alternatives grew. What a comedown it would be now, if he had to get a regular job after all.
He called the rest of the group immediately, but he decided not to tell his family until afterwards. There was too much risk that his father would try to stop him going.
He kept the exciting secret to himself all evening. Next day at lunchtime, he asked to see the head teacher, old None Above.
Dave felt intimidated in the headmaster’s study. In his early days at school he had been caned in this office several times for such offences as running in the corridor.
He explained the situation and pretended that there had not been time to get a note from his father.
‘It seems to me you have to choose between getting a decent education and becoming a pop singer,’ said Mr Furbelow, pronouncing the words ‘pop singer’ with a grimace of distaste. He looked as if he had been asked to eat a can of cold dog food.
Dave thought of saying
Actually, my ambition is to become a prostitute’s minder
, but Furbelow’s sense of humour was as scant as his hair. ‘You told my father I’m going to fail all my exams and be thrown out of the school.’
‘If your work does not improve rapidly, and if you consequently fail to gain any O-level qualifications, you will not be admitted to the sixth form,’ the head said with prissy exactness. ‘All the more reason why you may not take days off school to appear on trashy television programmes.’
Dave thought of arguing about ‘trashy’ and decided it was a lost cause. ‘I thought you might regard a trip to a television studio as an educational experience,’ he said reasonably.
‘No. There is far too much talk nowadays about educational “experiences”. Education takes place in the classroom.’
Despite Furbelow’s mulish obstinacy, Dave continued to try to reason with him. ‘I’d like to have a career in music.’
‘But you don’t even belong to the school orchestra.’
‘They don’t use any instruments invented in the last hundred years.’
‘And all the better for it.’
Dave was finding it harder and harder to keep his temper. ‘I play the electric guitar quite well.’
‘I don’t call that a musical instrument.’
Against his better judgement, Dave allowed his voice to rise in a challenge. ‘What is it, then?’
Furbelow’s chin lifted and he looked superior. ‘More a sort of nigger noise-maker.’
For a moment, Dave was silenced. Then he lost his cool. ‘This is just wilful ignorance!’ he said.
‘Don’t you dare speak to me like that.’
‘Not only are you ignorant, you’re racist!’
Furbelow stood up. ‘Get out this instant.’
‘You think it’s all right for you to come out with your crude prejudices, just because you’re the burned-out head of a school for rich kids!’
‘Be silent!’
‘Never,’ said Dave, and he left the room.
In the corridor outside the head’s study, it occurred to him that he could not now go to class.
A moment later, he realized he could not stay in the school.
He had not planned this, but in a moment of madness he had, in fact, left school.
So be it, he thought; and he left the building.
He went to a café nearby and ordered egg and chips. He had burned his boats. After he had called the head ignorant, burned-out and racist, they would not have him back, no matter what. He felt scared as well as liberated.
But he did not regret what he had done. He had a chance of becoming a pop star – and the school had wanted him to let it slip by!
Ironically, he was at a loss to know what to do with his new-found freedom. He wandered around the streets for a couple of hours then returned to the school gates to wait for Linda Robertson.
He walked her home after school. Naturally, the whole class had noticed his absence, but the teachers had said nothing. When Dave told her what had happened, she was awestruck. ‘So you’re going to Birmingham anyway?’
‘You bet.’
‘You’ll have to leave school.’
‘I’ve left.’
‘What will you do?’
‘If the record is a hit, I’ll be able to afford to get a flat with Walli.’
‘Wow. And if it’s not?’
‘Then I’m in trouble.’
She invited him in. Her parents were out, so they went to her bedroom, as they had done before. They kissed, and she let him feel her breasts; but he could tell she was troubled. ‘What’s the matter?’ he said.
‘You’re going to be a star,’ she said. ‘I know it.’
‘Aren’t you glad?’
‘You’ll be mobbed by dolly-birds who will let you go all the way.’
‘I hope so!’
She burst into tears.
‘I was kidding,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry!’
She said: ‘You used to be this cute little kid I liked to talk to. None of the girls even wanted to kiss you. Then you joined a group and turned into the coolest boy in school, and they all envied me. Now you’ll be famous and I’ll lose you.’
He thought she wanted him to say that he would be faithful to her, no matter what, and he was tempted to swear undying love; but he held back. He really liked her, but he was not yet sixteen, and he knew he was too young to be tied down. However, he did not want to hurt her feelings, so he said: ‘Let’s just see what happens, okay?’
He saw the disappointment on her face, though she covered it up quickly. ‘Good idea,’ she said. She dried her tears, then they went down to the kitchen and had tea and chocolate biscuits until her mother came home.
When he got back to Great Peter Street, there was no sign of anything unusual, so he deduced that the school had not telephoned his parents. No doubt None Above would prefer to write a letter. That gave Dave a day of grace.
He said nothing to his parents until the following morning. His father left at eight. Then Dave spoke to his mother. ‘I’m not going to school,’ he said.
She did not fly off the handle. ‘Try to understand the journey that your father has made,’ she said. ‘He was illegitimate, as you know. His mother worked in a sweat shop in the East End, before she went into politics. His grandfather was a coal miner. Yet your father went to one of the world’s great universities, and by the time he was thirty-one he was a minister in the British government.’
‘But I’m different!’
‘Of course you are, but to him it looks as if you just want to throw away everything he and his parents and grandparents have achieved.’
‘I have to live my own life.’
‘I know.’
‘I’ve left school. I had a row with old None Above. You’ll probably get a letter from him today.’
‘Oh, dear. Your father will find that hard to forgive.’
‘I know. I’m leaving home, too.’
She began to cry. ‘Where will you go?’
Dave felt tearful, too, but he kept control. ‘I’ll stay at the YMCA for a few days then get a flat with Walli.’
She put a hand on his arm. ‘Just don’t be angry with your father. He loves you so much.’
‘I’m not angry,’ said Dave, though he was, really. ‘I’m just not going to be held back by him, that’s all.’
‘Oh, God,’ she said. ‘You’re as wild as I was, and just as pig-headed.’
Dave was surprised. He knew she had made an unhappy first marriage, but all the same, he could not imagine his mother being wild.
She added: ‘I hope your mistakes won’t be as bad as mine.’
As he was leaving, she gave him all the money in her purse.
Walli was waiting in the hall. They left the house carrying their guitars. As soon as they were outside in the street all feelings of regret vanished, and Dave began to feel both excited and apprehensive. He was going to be on television! But he had gambled everything. He felt a little dizzy every time he remembered that he had left home and school.
They got the Tube to Euston. Dave had to ensure the television appearance was a success. This was paramount. If the record did not sell, he thought fearfully, and Plum Nellie was a failure, what then? He might have to wash glasses at the Jump Club, like Walli.
What could he do that would make people buy the record?
He had no idea.
Eric Chapman was waiting at the railway station in a pinstriped suit. Buzz, Lew and Lenny were already there. They loaded their guitars on to the train. The drums were going separately, being driven in a van to Birmingham by Larry Grant; but no one would trust him with the precious guitars.
On the train, Dave said to Eric: ‘Thanks for buying our tickets.’
‘Don’t thank me. The cost will be deducted from your fee.’
‘So . . . the television company will pay our fee to you?’
‘Yes, and I’ll deduct twenty-five per cent, plus expenses, and pay you the rest.’
‘Why?’ said Dave.
‘Because I’m your manager, that’s why.’
‘Are you? I didn’t know.’
‘Well, you signed the contract.’
‘Did I?’
‘Yes. I wouldn’t have recorded you otherwise. Do I look like a charity worker?’
‘Oh – that piece of paper we signed before the audition?’