Instrumental (16 page)

Within a few months Denis and I had been approached to sign a deal with Warners on their rock label. This was, at the time, a really big thing. They have a substantial and highly regarded classical label, Warner Classics & Jazz, but the idea of being on the rock label while sticking to core classical music was amazing to me. Finally we could start chipping away at the ghettoisation of classical music, get some proper marketing behind us (I mean these guys had Muse and Metallica on their books, for fuck's sake) and really start to make progress.

We went into the studio to record album number three,
Bullets and Lullabies.
The concept was two discs, one fast, one slow; one to wake up to and one to pass out to. Denis had spent a few years working as a DJ and he loved the idea of making a kind of classical set list that created a sort of storyline comprised of multiple pieces. What was so cool for me was recording little-known and absolutely amazing composers like Alkan, Blumenfeld and Moszkowski alongside Chopin and Beethoven. I really thought this was it – the big break everyone talks about. The album sounded great, the artwork looked brilliant (thanks to the stupendous talent of Dave Brown of
Mighty Boosh
fame), I was getting invites to the
Q
Awards and sent free clothing and I very quickly fell into the whole trap of being a giant fame-hungry tosser and believing all the egotistical bullshit about being special.

A few months after the album was released we were approached by Sky Arts who wanted to make a series about classical music but without the habitual stuffiness. The head of Warners had liaised with them and it seemed like a great way to move further into the realm
of television. It led to seven episodes of a show called
Piano Man
– each one focusing on a particular theme, either one big piece of music or a group of shorter connected pieces, again with introductions, me chatting about the pieces, with awesome on-screen, MTV-style graphics, and yet playing resolutely core classical repertoire, no voice-overs during the performance, absolute focus on the music itself. The production company who made it was Fresh One, Jamie Oliver's company, and it was the start of a hugely productive and enjoyable relationship with a terrific team of people. Having been around a little bit longer now, I can see just how lucky I was to work with a company so hands-on and supportive from the start – I love them hard.

Alas the bosses of both Warner Bros and Sky Arts seemed to think the other would take responsibility for the promotion of the show (no one wants to spend money unless they have to) and a bit like a retarded game of chicken, neither one budged first. Denis was in that initial meeting and begged them to work together to help make this show count. He reiterated that this was classical music and not rock, and because of that they were going to have to throw everything they could at it to make it work. It was a big ask, especially from Warners, who were more accustomed to working with hugely successful bands and a genre of music that was in less need of resurrection than classical.

It was huge fun to film, even if only sixty-three people ended up seeing it, and it gave me a glimpse of what could be achieved with this kind of music, a great director and a decent budget. The whole team somehow managed to take a style of music few people
were interested in and show it off in a way that stripped away the bullshit and retained what was important – the music itself. And to be fair,
Piano Man
seems to have made it round the globe pretty successfully – I'm still getting incredibly kind messages in various exotic languages about it. And, if you're curious, it's available on Amazon at a steal.

And then Warners sat me and Denis down and told us that they had got me onto the Royal Variety Show, where literally fifteen million people were going to watch me play live in front of the Queen, and my head exploded. No wonder they weren't so keen to spend a lot of money pushing the Sky Arts show – this would do the job for them, and then some.

Everyone got very excited, we all talked about the tours afterwards, the huge CD sales, the O2 Arena and magazine covers. And all the time, Denis, always awesome, always careful, always realistic, was saying (not just to me but also to Warners) ‘What if it doesn't happen?', ‘What's plan B?' and, to me, ‘Are you sure you're ready for this if it happens?' They, and I, assured him I was and that it was a done deal. To the point that they announced it on their website, I told all my family and friends, and I could think of nothing else.

And of course, the director and producer of the show came to meet me at Steinway a few days before the show was due to happen and they told us they had decided to have less of a focus on classical music this year and go with another genre.

My ego was furious. And I was so ashamed, having told so many friends (who invariably didn't care a bit). But thank God. The thought of having to handle that level of exposure back in 2010 terrifies me.

I would never have made it, and would likely have ended up falling apart, talking to myself and twitching.

Denis and I regrouped, carried on doing what we were doing. I showed up at the piano every day as usual having learned to ignore apparent good news, not listen to hype and conjecture, simply focus on what's in front of me and doing the best job I can do.

He and I were still the entire team despite the odd accusation that we had a massive group of PR people on board. The truth was much more fun – Denis and me, cigarettes, endless coffees and my kitchen table. Of course we had some help along the way from some amazing people – Glynis Henderson at GHP, Simon Millward at Albion Media (Signum's PR company), John Kelleher and Conrad Withey from Warners, but ultimately it was, and still is, me and Denis hanging out, mouthing off, coming up with new ideas, figuring out our way and praying that things are going to work out for the best. Small is beautiful.

He and I saw that the whole music industry had been falling down for a while, that kids weren't paying money for things any more and the days of sitting back and counting on massive profits for minimal work were over. We were totally committed to trying new things, doing things differently.

We must have been doing something right, because the head of the British Phonographic Industry set up a meeting with us to ask me to be a spokesperson for them, railing against music piracy. Which is just about the stupidest thing I ever heard. And I told them so. Why the fuck would people
not
steal music when the whole industry had fucked them up the ass for decades and was too lazy to do its job?

Because the labels were asking them nicely not to? I told them that once they could find a way to give the fans a reason to pay for music, then they would. Willingly and happily. The labels just needed to up their game considerably and not feel entitled to a free ride any more, and there was no way I was going to stand up and say that they deserved to be treated with respect when they're charging £15 for a CD and had been shafting their artists and audiences senseless for decades.

Which made me realise this: the whole Variety Show thing, along with some of the more vitriolic press, simply confirmed that I didn't fit into the established classical world and I didn't fit into the crossover classical world. Instead I was shuffling along in my own little space, convinced I was doing something good and worthy, but having to accept that it was going to take a while to get onto solid ground and build things up.

Here too is the importance of good management. Denis is often more of a nurse/shrink/big brother than a manager. There are certain things I fear, and feel that were I to tweet them, talk about them in interviews or make them public, my career would probably dive-bomb into obscurity. There are things I cannot tell my lover, family, friends or even shrink. But Denis knows all of it. Our relationship is at the point, and has been for a long time, where I feel and act as if he is simply an extension of myself and so there's no need to hide anything
he is always there, always dependable, a given.

There is the professional stuff he does, which I guess is the main point of a manager. I look around at my piano world today and see a forthcoming series on Channel 4; concerts all around the world
from the Sydney Opera House to America, London to Barbados; a live DVD; five albums; even my own line of shoes (shut up – they're called Jimmy Shoes, at least until we get sued, and they are awesome; designed by Tracey Neuls, a fan who wanted me to wear something comfortable and high quality on stage, they don't disappoint, and will be available online and in store by the time you read this); an income that many music college graduates couldn't dream of earning; a royalty percentage that is the highest I've ever heard of in the music sector; and all of that is down to him. He scours contracts, hammers the phone, pushes politely yet persistently in meetings, thinks of the bigger picture all the time, has a plan and a vision and sticks to it no matter what. He is a likeable Donald Trump in business and even more talented in a world where I, left to my own devices, would do pretty much anything for free simply because it involves getting to play music.

But then there is the stuff that keeps me alive, often smiling, able to sleep calmly most nights. He has gone through a world of shit in his lifetime. A hideous upbringing, violence, trauma, pain, heartache and serious strife. And he has emerged whole, wise and with that particular flavour of kindness and compassion that can only ever come from shared pain. There are no office hours. It is a 24/7 relationship where I can come to his house at 4 a.m. sobbing, share a cigarette backstage before important gigs, send him a deluge of needy, worried texts about money, concerts, reviews, girls, physical and mental health, and know he will provide a moment of grace, of calmness and serenity that will tide me over.

There is a reason that Lang Lang's people took my concert promoter out for lunch and drilled her about what we were doing and how we
were doing it. Ditto why, just after
Razor Blades
came out, Michael Lang, the head of Deutsche Grammophon (once the most prestigious classical music label in the world) called Denis to tell us to hold off signing with anyone, get a bit more experience and then perhaps they might consider signing me up in a few months or a couple of years.

‘Years?' Denis laughed. ‘Michael, have you been reading the papers? Why would we wait for you that long – you probably won't have a job by next year.'
And if Michael had given us just one valid reason we might have considered it. But Denis knew, as did I, that the only way forward, the only realistic shot we had at reaching our goal, was to try doing things in a new way and avoid the established classical industry as much as possible.

It's funny, because fundamentally he and I are just two slightly deranged schmucks who seem to have found a really, really cool way to play and present the most incredible music ever written. And also lovely because when we met, Denis had no clue about classical music. Now he listens to it all of the time, treats the giant pieces I've introduced him to as his babies and has fallen in love with a whole new world. He is my target audience. Someone who kind of wants to know more about classical music, doesn't really know where to start, and doesn't want to hang around weirdos and old people to find out more about it.

Denis has got me into venues and situations I could never have even dreamt of. He and the team at GHP have got decent concert fees for some tattooed loser who wears jeans and swears too much and plays the piano perhaps as well as a bunch of music college
undergraduates but certainly no better, and put their faith, money and energy into him, even when it looked like nothing would happen.

It feels harder in the UK sometimes, as there seems to be less desire to try things that at first glance seem inaccessible or requiring time and effort. But in 2011 I toured Australia and it really absolutely confirmed that there was something we were doing that could have an impact. We sold out two shows in Melbourne and had to add a third, I got on the news (for the right reason), played in Canberra, Sydney, Adelaide, Brisbane, got
Bullets and Lullabies
into the top twenty rock charts, consistently played to audiences aged in their early twenties who had never been to a piano recital before, and I spent a couple of weeks eating banana bread, having surprising massages (don't even ask what happens at the end over there) and noticing that there was a huge, welcoming response to classical music from people who would not have normally given two fucks.

Geoffrey Rush came to one of my Melbourne gigs. We shared a cigarette afterwards and I remember asking myself what the fuck I'd done to get to be this lucky. Especially because the day after I did a segment for ABC news with David Helfgott, whom Rush had played so brilliantly in the film
Shine.
Helfgott had listened to the live radio broadcast of one of the Melbourne concerts and loved it. He was, is, an amazing man. Troubled, manic, scary, brilliant and unique. And a great warning about where I could end up emotionally if I don't keep my shit together.

Denis had also been listening to the Melbourne gig back home in London where he had literally crawled back under the covers as he heard me cracking jokes about the Holocaust, AIDS and dwarf porn
to a lovely Australian audience live on ABC radio. I blame the jet lag. And I love the Aussies even more for being so welcoming and openhearted.

Once I got back, I realised perhaps Warner Bros wasn't the right way forward. Having failed to get the Royal Variety gig, there was no plan B and they kinda just gave up on me. I have huge respect for the guys there and they put so much time and effort in, but the fit wasn't quite right for the both of us. I had been signed to the world's largest rock label, but couldn't profit from it only because you can't make orange juice out of lemons no matter how much time and money you spend trying. If we had found a way to make it work I'd have stayed in a heartbeat, but somehow playing Beethoven when they were used to plugging and selling Green Day and Linkin Park was a stretch too far, no matter how noble or sincere the intentions. So we amicably parted ways.