Authors: Julian Mitchell
“I’d better go and listen to this Albert Swetman,” said Ken. He nodded round the table. “Glad to have met you. See you all again, maybe.”
He slouched off towards the narrow stairs.
“You see,” said Barrett. “He’s interested. He’s really interested. He’s got a memory like an elephant, Ken has. He won’t forget you, ever.”
“Lucky for him,” said Pete. He got up and said, “I think it’s time we were making tracks. Thanks for the session, Frank. Let me know if you feel like calling us in again some night.”
“Sure, sure,” said Barrett. He was looking at Edward. “What kind of stuff do you sing, Ed?”
“That’s a secret,” said Edward. “I’m going to be a surprise bombshell, top of the pops with my first disc. A private bodyguard in six months.”
“Best of luck,” said Greg. “Your piano’s good, anyway. Maybe we could all get together again some time.”
Pete asked for his address. His surname, it turned out, was
Smith. His telephone exchange was
POL
, and Pete was
embarrassed
to ask what it stood for.
As they moved towards the door, Judy took Edward’s arm and said, “It’s a foul business, the pop business. I don’t think it’ll suit you, Edward, darling.”
“Probably not. I’m not in yet, anyway.”
They walked down Shaftesbury Avenue and hailed a taxi. Barrett said goodbye, and he and Greg walked off towards Covent Garden, where Greg had parked his father’s car.
“We must get some transport,” said Pete to Judy. “It’s mad taking taxis at night.”
“Why didn’t you bring the Bandwaggon, Edward?” said Judy.
“It doesn’t like London traffic. It gets frightened and stalls in the jams. It’s strictly a country car.”
“You know,” said Pete, “I think Greg could be our man. He’s got some original ideas, I liked him. I want a line-up of trumpet, tenor, piano—that’s what we’d have if Greg came in—drums, and perhaps alto. What d’you think, Edward? Alto or clarinet? Perhaps even another tenor? Or vibes?”
“I hate playing with vibes,” said Edward. “They crowd out the piano. And I don’t think clarinet’s right for us.”
“Why do you want another horn?” said Judy. “Surely two’s company?”
“I don’t know,” said Pete. He plucked at his fringe of beard. “It makes for a richer sound, a more complicated sound. If you can get two saxes mixing right, they give a great basis for contrasting the other instruments. A trumpet often sounds better with two saxes.”
“It means an awful lot of ensemble work,” said Edward. “And a hell of a lot of arranging. And would it be right for your club, Pete? It won’t be exactly intimate dance music, will it?”
“Maybe not,” said Pete. “But who wants intimate dance music? I want the club to be a place where people come to
listen.
They can dance, too, if they want to. But it’s going to be a reflective sort of place, you know what I mean? Somewhere
where you can go and drink and listen or dance, but where you won’t feel
obliged
to
do either.”
“It’s a great idea, Edward,” said Judy. “There’s nowhere you can go to hear good modern jazz six nights a week without having to put up with a lot of crap, too.”
“That’s the point, really,” said Pete. “There’ll only be a tiny floor. We’ll make it like the American jazz bars—you have to pay some minimum—five bob, say—and then you can drink as much or as little as you like. And you can listen.”
“Don’t make it a shrine,” said Edward.
“Yeah, that’s one of the problems,” said Judy. “Like Greg said, once something arrives here from America we start stylising it, draining the life out of it. We mustn’t make it too solemn.”
Edward, who was sitting on one of the tip-up seats, said suddenly, “Look, Pete, I hope you’re not counting too much on me. I’m going to be pretty busy the next few weeks, with this man Shrieve, and the audition and everything.”
“Oh, sure,” said Pete. “We’ll have to see how things pan out. Nothing’s fixed.” He frowned and added, “It’s about time something was.”
“What’s all this about your man Shrieve?” said Judy.
“Oh, he’s a sort of game warden for some primitive people in Africa,” said Edward. “And the country’s about to become independent, and he wants to make sure nothing horrid happens to them.”
“Since when were you interested in primitive people?”
“Since a few days ago.”
“You are weird,” said Judy. “What do you want to go and get mixed up with all that for? You know we need you for the band.”
“That’s my way,” said Edward. “You know me. I don’t like to commit myself too much.”
“It’s about time you did,” said Pete. “You can’t spend your whole life hanging about.”
“For Christ’s sake, you sound like my father. I haven’t even had my viva yet. Get off my back, will you?”
“O.K., O.K.”
“You are weird,” said Judy again. “In fact, you’re nuts, Edward.”
“So I’m nuts. I like to eat with both hands, that’s all.”
“Don’t choke yourself, baby.”
“Talking of choking,” said Edward, “did you hear that Albert Swetman?”
“We heard him,” said Judy.
Pete began to whistle through his teeth.
“Well, he’s what I don’t want to be. And I hope you’re going to help me not be like him. I mean, you know how my judgement goes haywire sometimes. I need your advice about my new song. It’s about a man who knows every girl in the district but doesn’t love any of them.”
He described the brief plot. There was lots of adolescent yearning for experience in the big outside world where Real Love takes place, and the climax was (he hoped) an irresistible plea to be understood. Already the tune was taking shape, and the words were coming along nicely. That the shape of a pop song was rigidly limited by the conventions of the form didn’t worry Edward in the least. After all, people had done some pretty good things with the sonnet.
He was so pleased with his song that when they arrived at Pete’s flat he said, “I’ll pay for the taxi. Count it as part of my rent. Really, it’s just an anticipation on the enormous revenues my pop life will bring in.”
Pete shrugged and made no protest.
A few minutes later they were sprawled in the bedroom drinking coffee and Pete was saying, “Edward, are you
really
serious about this audition, or is this just another of your nonsenses?”
“Serious? Why not?”
“Why not?” said Judy. “Tell us why, for God’s sake.”
“Yeah,” said Pete, jamming a pillow under his head. “Go right ahead and tell us.”
“Well, you know, for heaven’s sake,” said Edward. “I mean, we’ve been through this before, haven’t we? You know
how I feel about it. There’s nothing wrong with pops, and if you can make a lot of money out of them, so much the better.”
“That was all right while we were fooling around at Oxford,” said Pete. “That was a good joke, if you like. But now we’re grown ups, right? I want to run a band that plays decent music. Pop is indecent music.”
“It isn’t,” said Edward. “In any sense. Saying that, you’re really just being a snob about the people who like it.”
“No, no,” said Pete. “I don’t mind people liking it. At times I even like it myself, you know I do. But it’s strictly commercial, Edward, and you know it. While with our sort of music, like Greg said, we do it for ourselves. There’s a difference in the quality of approach as well as in the quality of the music.”
“Wow,” said Edward. “There’s a difference in the amount of money to be made, too.”
“Oh, hell, Edward,” said Judy. “What do you want that kind of money for? You can make quite enough a hundred ways without selling yourself to the music business for a few years.”
“That’s the point,” said Edward. “No one lasts in the pop market. But if you can make it for—oh, a year or two—then you’re rich for life. A year or two of being commercial for decades of being comfortably off—I can’t see what’s wrong with it.”
“I suppose there isn’t anything
wrong
with it,” said Pete,, “except that it involves betraying all the standards and tastes you have. There’s nothing
wrong,
perhaps, in embracing
self-corruption
. It’s just not very nice, that’s all.”
“Self-corruption?” said Edward. “What is this?”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but there’s no system of religion or morals, surely, which encourages a man to do something for money that he doesn’t believe in.”
“Oh, all that,” said Edward. “And if you’re about to say there are inner satisfactions that come from believing in what you’re doing, don’t bother. There are some big outer
satisfactions
to be got from being rich enough to do whatever you like.”
“Platitudes, platitudes,” said Judy. “Edward, what exactly do you want to be free to
do
,
please?”
Edward flushed. “I don’t know. When I’m rich, I’ll have the leisure to think about it, won’t I?”
“Weird,” said Judy.
“You’re the sort of man that gets modern youth a bad name,” said Pete.
“All right, I don’t know what I want to do. But I feel O.K. so long as I’m doing something. It doesn’t matter what. I like to be busy. You know, I really enjoyed digging up that Roman villa.”
“You’re beyond me,” said Judy. “You spend your whole time saying there’s nothing you want to do, and then you say you’re only happy if you’re doing something. You need to make up your mind, Edward.”
“So I’m mixed up. Maybe that’s why I play the piano. You don’t get nice normal people playing musical instruments.”
“What I don’t understand,” said Pete, “is how you can really want to be a pop singer if you genuinely enjoy playing jazz. Why don’t you stick to one thing at a time?”
“Perhaps it’s because I know I’m not a very good pianist and never will be.”
There was silence. Edward knew that Pete wouldn’t contradict him. But although he was glad about Pete’s honesty, he was discomfited by it, too.
“Oh, you’re not that bad,” said Judy. “And if Pete wants you to play for him, you must be
quite
good, anyway.” She laughed and took his hand.
Edward grinned at her. “Oh, I’m better on piano than Prank Barrett is on drums. I could get by, I suppose. But I don’t think I want just to get by.”
“What makes you think you’ll do better singing pops?” said Pete.
“Nothing. But pop singing is such a mad world, anything could happen. You don’t have to be good but lucky.”
“Well, I’ll cross my fingers for you,” said Pete. He closed his eyes and began to hum.
“Bedtime,” said Judy. “I have to work in the mornings, unlike you two. Will you be all right on that mattress, Edward? I did air it.”
“I’ll be fine. And thanks very much.”
“Good night,” said Pete, still with his eyes closed. “I’ll work on that song for you, if you’ll play in my band.”
“It’s a deal,” said Edward.
There was nowhere to put his clothes in the sitting-room, so he draped them over the extension speaker of the
gramophone
. He got into his low bed, then realised the light switch was by the door. He got up again and switched off the light, then made his way carefully back to the mattress. He hated stubbing his toes.
*
The neon sign above the Brachs Building burned until three. In an office on the twentieth floor a sallow man of thirty-five or -six was sitting at his desk and reading the regular night reports of Champney, Morrison, Dulake’s talent scouts from the favourite teenage haunts. It was necessary in the music business, Mr Brachs believed, to be several jumps ahead of one’s rivals. It was better to sign up six young hopefuls, one of whom might eventually be a mild success, than to lose through caution the one in a thousand who could be a best-seller. And if you caught them young and green enough, of course, they cost a good deal less. As a result of this policy, eight of the nine English singers in the current top twenty were clients of Champney, Morrison, Dulake and Co, and in Tin Pan Alley the firm was known as “the slave market”.
The sallow man pushed his horn-rimmed glasses firmly on to his nose and took a new report from the pile. It was by Ken Hepwith, the regular scout at the Racket. First came a general summary of the evening’s music and a list of all the musicians who’d played. Then came a comment on the audience—its size, age, and general composition—and its reactions to the different bands. Finally, and at some length, came detailed criticisms of
each band. Most of the names were familiar to the sallow man, and some of them had been auditioned on the eighteenth and nineteenth floors of the Building. Several had been given
noncommittal
contracts by Fred Martin and others on the twentieth.
The Choke, it seemed, was beginning to catch on. At least Ken Hepwith thought so. The sallow man thought Hepwith might be right. It was comparatively easy to dance, it involved a lot of sensual hip movement and shuffling, it had a simple beat. There was, however, the question of who was to launch it, who was to become the King of the Choke. And then the name—it would have to be changed or every sexual
strangulation
in the country would be attributed to it. How, too, was it to be sponsored? The Hammersmith Palais, of course, and similar places would get full treatment, but Mr Brachs had let it be known that he was dissatisfied with the system of
provincial
one-night stands in cinemas and dance halls. It was taxing on the artists and complicated to arrange, its effects weren’t lasting, it didn’t fully exploit the market. The last dance Mr Brachs had launched had netted over two million pounds, not counting the extra sales of Free and jeans which it might have stimulated. The sallow man knew that Mr Brachs would not be content with less than five million for his next promotion.
Ken Hepwith had asterisked Greg Smith as a man to watch. He had been on top form this evening with the queried trumpeter Harrisson and a new pianist called Gilchrist. Gilchrist said he was being auditioned next week as a singer, but this might have been a joke or a lie.
The sallow man grimaced at the poverty of Hepwith’s information. Smith had been watched for several months, Harrisson’s playing at Oxford had been regularly reported on, and Gilchrist was known to Champney, Morrison, Dulake as both pianist and singer. The sallow man read with distaste that “Frank Barrett once again showed himself a drummer of high class”. Barrett’s drumming had long ago been dismissed as loud and vulgar, and Hepwith’s continued efforts to push him
showed a lack of that personal detachment which was essential for a useful informer in the music business. Once a talent scout started pushing his friends he was on the way out. The sallow man made a neat cross in green biro against Hepwith’s name.